


In Want of a Wife

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 05:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18138008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: An unmarried man of meansmustbe shopping for a wife; everyone knows this.





	1. In which an invitation is accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> (Finally importing this ma-HOO-sive work.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not sure if Helen Fielding would be horrified or amused at this concept; the characters and such are hers, but these words are mine, except for those that belong to Lord Byron. 
> 
> Notes: When M. presented me with this plotbunny, the story concept "Bridget Jones set in Regency", I thought to myself, "Yes, it's been done; it's called _Pride & Prejudice_." However, largely in part to her input and plotting, it is anything but that, but rather, is something born new in the retelling. It's been interesting—so many authors these days are adapting the Regency tale to modern times, and this does the opposite—and I hope you think so too. It's not a perfect retelling of BJD, obviously; some adjustments have had to be made. However, it's offered in the spirit of the 20th century Mark and Bridget, who are themselves quite different from Austen's Darcy and Elizabeth. (This is sort of mostly **book** universe, but it hardly matters after a fashion.) 
> 
> Anyway. I literally could not have done this without her. <3 
> 
> I am of course limited by my 21st century existence, and as careful as I have been, I'm sure I've let a modern word or a common "won't" slip in inadvertently; there is, unfortunately, no setting for Language for "Early 19th Century English" in Word. A thousand pardons, I beg you.

_London_  
_Wednesday, 1 June 1814_

Lord Darcy knew what his duty was; he knew it, and he dreaded it. The importance of fulfilling that duty, the securing of a wife, had been starkly underscored upon the passing of his father nearly two years ago, when he had been thrust into prominence as the head of his family, the lord over his estate. The dread came not from the duty itself, but from the path it seemed he would inevitably need to take in order to get there, and it was a necessary duty, as he was nearing five and twenty and acutely felt the pressure to produce an heir. He had just concluded his second season in town in his father's place in the House of Lords and the parade of eligible young women presented to him thus far was not to be believed, the eyes of their mothers positively avaricious in anticipation of a possible match, to the point of his despair of ever meeting a lady suitable to the task.

He was pragmatic, was not a romantic by any means. He only wanted a woman with whom he could spend time in agreeable companionship, one who could bear him a child, an heir to the line. She must, of course, be socially refined, with a perfect sense of propriety in every occasion as befitting the wife of a man of his stature; an innate intelligence was required of her as was an education from the most prestigious of schools; agreeable and in tune with his opinions and thoughts; pleasant to look at, a bonus. Honesty, integrity and good character were naturally unspoken in enumerating his essentials for a wife. He did not think these prerequisites were too much upon which to insist, but to date it seemed impossible to find someone to fill them all, not to mention the way in which his attitude was soured by the obvious attempts to win his favour.

He thought he had found a suitable match last year in London, a lady of high bearing and possessing most of his mandatory qualities, and he had been seriously considering making an offer to her family for her hand in marriage despite their not being fully compatible in personality. That had all come apart when she had, very thankfully before they had secured formal bonds or agreements, fallen for the charms of a former Cambridge friend and serial seducer who had just as quickly abandoned her to social ruin, only to repeat the same pattern of behaviour with Lord Westchester's wife in mid-May, an event which had been made much more public, to the misfortune of the family. In his own, more private situation, he was not without a level of sympathy for the lady, but it had ultimately been a disaster of her own making and spoke of a weak will. The disappointment he felt in his own lapse in judgment was mitigated only by having avoided such a devastating tarnish to his name and reputation. 

London would soon be far away, both in distance and from his thoughts. He would be glad for the break from his latest admirer, Miss Natasha Glenville, daughter of his late father's friend and very close to himself in age. She was very well-educated and excellently accomplished, pretty in her own way with her dark brown eyes and hair, but her eagerness to win both his eye and his offer was a little too blatant to be palatable to him. He knew she was so earnest because she was verging dangerously on being beyond a marriageable age, but for the most part he found it tiresome. He would much have preferred to spar legalities in Parliament than to have to lavish women with frivolous niceties.

"Lord Darcy, I wonder that my question regarding your return to London needs quite so much consideration."

He returned to his surroundings, looked to the woman with whom he had been engaged in conversation, the same woman he had just been considering. She was dressed in her finest, her hair coiffed in little curls against her cheek, and from a silken turban came a spray of feathers that would have made a peacock blush. He offered a pleasant, conciliatory smile to her, which he then shared with the others at the table. "My sincerest apologies, Miss Glenville," he said. "I am afraid my mind was rudely occupied with thoughts of my impending departure from London."

"You are a coy one tonight," she said with an air of over-familiarity he did not like. "Your return?"

"Is uncertain at present. I do not know if we intend on staying for a few weeks or for the whole of the summer."

She smiled and demurely lowered her eyes. "Of course you would tell me if you knew," she said. "Even the way you hold your glass of wine, the strength of your wrist and the gentle firmness of your grasp, shows the mark of a true gentleman."

He often wondered if she was not a little daft in the head. "You are too kind," he said, then nothing more, hoping she would accept it as the end of their conversation. She seemed to take the hint, but at the price of then engaging his mother's attention for the remainder of the dinner.

When the guests had left, he found his mother regarding a portrait that had been done of his father when the man had been hearty and hale, in the prime of youth. It pained him to see her in her widow's weeds. "He looked like that when we met," she said wistfully, not looking away. "Oh, but how I miss him, Mark."

He slipped his arm around her for a loving hug. "I know. I miss him as well," he said, and it was not an untruth. "I am glad you could come to spend your birthday here in London and not alone in the country."

"I am not alone in the country," she said, turning to him, revealing some of her usual good humour. "I have a wealth of friends in Northamptonshire to support me through my mourning period." He was glad to think it was nearing an end. "I miss your brother, of course, but he writes when he can and visits every time he is home. And you may be here in London, but I do not really think of it as too terribly far away."

"It helps to have a good carriage and fine horses at our disposal," he said. Hoping to cheer her even further, he said, "The visit has been good for you, though, and you are looking very well indeed." His hand brushed along her shoulder once more. He realised that draped over the black bombazine silk was a black shawl that she had not been wearing earlier. "I do not remember seeing this before," he said. "Is it new?"

"Yes," she said as she slipped it off for him to inspect. "A gift from my goddaughter."

He furrowed his brow as he held it up to inspect it. It was linen, if the soft feel of it on his fingers could be trusted, coupled with weaving black vines of embroidery. He had a vague recollection of hearing of a goddaughter before, but could not recall details at present. "Goddaughter?"

"You cannot have forgotten, Mark," she said as she turned to allow him to drape it upon her shoulders again. "Mrs Jones, my friend from childhood? Her daughter. Mr and Mrs Jones live close to Grafton Manor, as I am sure you remember, so I see them all with great frequency."

It was starting to come back to him. "And I recall Mr Jones is a respectable man."

"Oh, very," she replied. "A very fine gentleman indeed, though he does not prefer to leave the county if he can help it. Their daughter is such a sweet girl, though I am not sure you saw her very much, as young as she is. Surely you remember James, though."

James Jones, or Jamie as he was known to his friends at Eton then Cambridge, was quite easy for him to remember, although James was closer in age to his own brother Peter, two years his junior; talk of a daughter, a sister three years younger than Jamie, sparked a remembrance of a small blonde child when he, Peter and Jamie were Eton school mates. "Of course," he said.

"When we return to Grafton Manor," she said, "we shall have to pay a visit. It would be good of you to become reacquainted with James, and especially to get to know his sister." He had always respected his mother's opinions, judgment and overall good sense, and thus did not interpret this as anything other than a wish to renew or form connexions with respectable people, at least not until she added tenderly, "I know the pressure you are putting on yourself to find a wife, how difficult it has been for you, and how trying on your patience and nerves it is to wade through so much flattery, which I know you abhor. Miss Jones is unlikely to be anything but herself with you."

That made her motives a little clearer, but he still did not mind. Meeting this young lady to see if she was in fact of any interest to him was the least he could do for his mother, who already thought very highly of the girl. It mattered not to him that Miss Jones did not come from a family with wealth equal to his own; with ten-thousand a year he would have more than enough to provide for the woman he made his wife and the children they would have. What mattered was the scrupulousness of the lady, her grace and her wit… and whether or not he could bear to be in her company.

………

Two days following the birthday dinner, a letter from his brother Peter arrived informing Darcy that he was due back in England, and that he would be joining them at Grafton Manor. His mother, of course, was delighted. "His arrival will be very close to our own," she said as she read the letter. "Oh, but it will be good to have my sons together at home with me."

Darcy smiled and agreed. It had been too long since Peter had been back on terra firma, on English soil; his younger brother had obtained his captaincy shortly before his father's passing, and in fact Darcy did not think he had seen Peter since his return for the funeral.

The sojourn to the country was delayed a day due to unforeseen circumstances involving the rear carriage wheel, but they left as soon as possible the following morning. Upon their reaching Northamptonshire and disembarking from the carriage, Darcy stepped into his childhood home and swelled with feelings of warmth, an effect it always had on him; to be surrounded by people he loved, by objects he cherished for the memories they evoked, brought assurance and comfort to him. He wasted little time suiting up for a ride on his favourite horse, taking in the fresh country air, revelling in the verdant lushness of the grounds.

Upon returning from his ride he was advised that dinner was to be at six and that some papers had arrived which required his attention. After a change of clothing he retired to the study that he still thought of as his father's in order to attend to those papers. He read through them carefully, signing those that needed to be signed. He also perused an invitation that had arrived in his mother's absence advising of a ball in Norfolk County, given by family friends celebrating the marriage of their son. They were all invited to arrive early due to the travel involved and stay for a week. He noticed that the ball was less than a fortnight away.

"Oh, this must be for Guy," his mother said, perusing the invitation at the table. "I had wondered when he would make an offer. Oh, I do hope you will consider attending, Mark. I would really like to go, such a joy that should be rightly celebrated… and for you to escort me. I am sure the Joneses will be attending as well. What an excellent opportunity would have been presented to us."

He did not particularly wish to travel to Norfolk, especially if the ultimate goal was to attend a ball, but at the sight of his mother so excited at the prospect, he knew he could not refuse. "Of course," he said. "I shall send word by post."

"If you can await your brother's arrival," she said, "we shall see if he would like to accompany us."

With so little time until the ball and no firm idea as to when Peter would present himself, Darcy advised he would wait through the next day but no longer, as the courtesy of a reply could not be further delayed. He was therefore grateful to receive a letter after dinner advising of Peter's imminent arrival, which thrilled his mother beyond words. "We must have Cook have something ready for him to eat when he arrives," she said. "And Molly must at once air out his room!"

It was a joyous reunion indeed when Peter came into the house; Lady Darcy could be forgiven any perceived lack of decorum, Darcy thought, as it had been too long a time since they had last seen one another (under too unhappy a circumstance, at that), and young men at sea during wartime led a life of uncertainty.

"Are you hungry? You must be hungry," she said, taking him by the arm, scrutinising his face. "You are so browned." 

Peter chuckled. "I could use something to eat," he admitted. "The stop at the pub seems a lifetime ago."

A hearty serving of cold meat pie and a glass of red wine seemed to be just what he needed, and upon cleaning the plate he sat back and sighed. "You will forgive me for wanting to retire early tonight," he said. "We can do all manner of catching up in the morning."

Lady Darcy nodded, then gave her eldest son a look, effectively quietening him before he could make mention of the trip to Norfolk and the ball. "Of course, my dear son. Your room awaits you."

"Thank you. Mark?" asked Peter. "Care to join me for a snifter of port?"

"Of course," said Darcy.

"Excellent," he said.

Their mother took the opportunity to then quit the room. On the way out she kissed each of them on the cheek as if they were boys again, and bade them goodnight.

"Nothing quite like being at home," Peter said once she had gone. Darcy rose to pour the port. Peter then yawned. "Once I hit the bed I am afraid I am going to be useless for the next ten hours at least."

Darcy grinned, then took his seat at the table once more.

As they lifted their port and drank in tandem, Peter said, "I know what I said about catching up tomorrow, but is there anything critical I should know before breakfast?"

"Only that you are likely to be travelling again before the week is out," Darcy said with a smile. "We are all of us invited to Norfolk for a wedding and a ball, and are likely to stay for a week there at least."

"Ah," he said. "Well, if that is the worst of it, I think I can bear it." He regarded his brother. "And you are well?"

Darcy nodded. "Frankly, I am glad to be out of London."

"I thought you liked it in town."

"I did. _Do_ ," he corrected. "Lately, however, it has all been a bit wearing, as I have told you."

Darcy had previously apprised his brother via correspondence, in regards to his fruitless search. Peter patted his shoulder with fraternal affection. "I am sorry to hear it has been such a difficulty," he said. "Who knew having too many ladies from which to choose was as much of a tribulation as too few?"

Darcy chuckled, knowing his brother was having a little fun with him at his own expense, as there were not many females to be encountered whilst at sea. "And now my mother is making her own contribution."

"Is that so?" Peter asked, surprised. "On whom does she have her sights set?"

"Do you remember James Jones?" Darcy said.

"Jamie, yes of course," said Peter, then added, obviously realising where this was going: "Oh! You must mean Miss Jones."

"You remember her as well?"

"Yes, of course," he said thoughtfully. "I recall her being quite adorable, but she was not yet a woman when last I saw her, so I cannot pass opinion one way or another on the matter. What is your opinion?"

"I think she was even younger than that when we last met," Darcy said, "so I cannot hope to form one until we meet again. I am told she is sweet and unpretentious."

Peter's eyes widened in almost comical surprise. "Well, that _would_ be a breath of fresh air. I look forward to witnessing this meeting."

"So you will be accompanying us to Norfolk?"

Peter grinned and winked. "Would not miss it for the world."

………

Preparations and planning for the journey a mere three days after Captain Darcy's arrival meant the visit to the Jones' abode would have to be deferred. The sojourn to King's Lynn was pleasant and unmarred, and they arrived at their destination within a half-hour of their estimation. They were greeted warmly and effusively by their hosts, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Alconbury, who then had their servants show them to their rooms for the week.

The ball was to be held nearer to the end of the week's stay, and not all of the guests travelling from afar had arrived, so dinner that evening—or rather, late afternoon; Darcy had grown unaccustomed to dinner at half past four—was small and informal, just Lady Darcy, Lord Darcy and Captain Darcy, as well as the hosts, their son Guy Alconbury, and their daughters, Miss Alconbury and Miss Alison, and another family, the Enderbys of Bedfordshire: Lord Brian Enderby, Lady Enderby, and their daughter Miss Enderby. Introductions were made prior to being seated.

Conversation was light and superficial for the most part. It did not escape his attention that the ladies Alconbury and Miss Enderby did their level best to competitively engage him in conversation throughout the entire dinner. He caught his brother's eye once or twice; Peter looked a mixture of amused and sympathetic.

"My brother, Captain Darcy, has been at sea this past year," said Darcy, hoping to deflect attention from himself. The look Darcy received from his brother for this comment was now registering somewhere between mock vengefulness and gratitude. The ladies seemed duly interested in his sea stories and seemed charmed in their way.

"Lord Darcy," spoke up Lady Alconbury, "I understand you have been very popular in town this season." He wondered where this might be going, and if she would be so bold to pursue this conversation in mixed company; she had already tried (and had failed) to foist her daughters upon him in her turn. Instead, however, she smiled and concluded, perhaps in response to his dangerous look, "I hear you have been duly impressing all with your learnéd discourse and proposals in Parliament."

"I had hoped to achieve as much," he replied, "so I thank you, Ma'am."

She smiled politely and said nothing further on the matter.

At the conclusion of the meal the ladies departed for the drawing room while the men enjoyed after-dinner port, where Sir Geoffrey was a little bit more brusque about what his wife had only been hinting, asking after lighting and puffing upon his pipe, "Darcy, lad, when shall we see your marriage banns announced?"

"That would require a lady's involvement," he retorted with a little less patience than he had had with the women present, "and I have yet to secure one I find suitable."

Darcy heard the sound of a polite but stifled chuckle; he wondered if it was Guy or his brother, since the fathers of daughters who had been slighted (in their eyes) by Darcy would surely not have found it an amusing comment. Nonetheless, his words had had the intended effect and the subject was not broached again.

The other men engaged in small talk and banter about the state of hunting in the county—including mention of a special, off-season fox hunt the Tuesday after the wedding, of which all of the gentlemen were invited to partake—and matters relating to politics near and far—including the very recent exile of Napoleon to Elba—but Darcy did not involve himself. Instead, he rose to gaze out of the window, sipping at his port. As it was summer, he was able to enjoy a view of the sun-dappled foliage gracing the estate even at the hour of eight in the evening. 

They joined the ladies again for a short while in the drawing room, and Miss Alison, the youngest of them, was at the pianoforte playing a pleasant tune passably well, stumbling over the more difficult of the passages as her brother turned the pages. Even given her need for practise, this initial performance of hers was the only thing Darcy enjoyed about the evening. Miss Enderby, Miss Alconbury and Miss Alison, while staying within the boundaries of politeness and tact towards him, were almost in a sort of contest for his attention, trying to outdo one another in attempting to flatter and even entertain him via singing and playing. He wished to be anywhere else, wished they would direct some attention towards the other eligible man in the room, his brother, but perhaps a captain with the Royal Navy was not sufficiently prestigious. Darcy often felt badly about the fact that his brother, an accomplished man in his own right, had to stand in the shadow of the eldest brother and heir. 

At long last the night drew to a close, and they began to part for their individual rooms. When Darcy closed the door to his room behind him, after allowing a brief entrance to instruct his valet Gillies for the following morning, he let out a long sigh and felt relief for the quiet that enfolded him.

He slept soundly and woke when Gillies called for him at seven in the morning. The sun was already up and shining brightly. His breakfast was brought to him as he had requested, and as he accepted it he advised the servant he was afflicted with a headache and would remain in his quarters. He then dressed and contented himself with a book. The report of physical discomfiture was not entirely untrue; the thought of facing the legion of women did make him feel unwell.

How long he spent reading he was not sure, but when he heard a commotion under his window he rose to peer outside. He saw that he had a view of the drive, and drawing to a stop was a passenger carriage and a horse accompanying it.

Curious, he watched as an older gentleman emerged dressed in fine though slightly rumpled attire. After descending, he turned and, shooing away the footmen, helped whom Darcy could only assume was his wife from the carriage, also dressed in fine attire. Atop the horse was another man, and Darcy watched him sidle up along the carriage; Darcy realised as he dismounted and took off his hat that the man was his friend from school, Jamie Jones, and that he had been accompanying the carriage. As this realisation hit him, a third figure was beginning to emerge from the carriage, another woman, young, flaxen-haired, wearing a pale blue dress and a bonnet with a matching blue ribbon. He could only conclude that arriving were the estimable Joneses, and the young woman, twenty years of age if his arithmetic was correct, was Miss Jones. The older man, presumably her father, held out his hand to assist her, but she swiped it away, then rose to her full height and jumped down to the ground, revealing for the briefest moment her slender ankles and white shoes. Even from the second storey of the house Darcy could see the look of horror on her mother's face as she did so, could faintly hear the scolding words through the windowpane. Miss Jones, for her part, affected a contrite expression while her mother admonished her, an expression that was so exaggerated Darcy could not help but smile; that she meant no true disrespect was reinforced by the amusement on Mr Jones' face.

Their travel cases were unloaded from the coach and carried up into the house. He saw Miss Jones linger, her face turned to the sun as she stretched her arms over her head after the long ride, but she turned quickly at the sound of her given name—Bridget—being uttered impatiently by her mother. In response she dashed up and under the portico, out of Darcy's view. A few minutes later he heard sound in the hallway beyond his door, heard heavy footfalls pass (surely the servants bringing up their things), then lighter ones accompanied by an appreciative-sounding female voice; the mother, Mrs Jones, if he were to guess. He should have deduced that their rooms would be in the same part of the house.

Darcy took his place in a chair with the book again, and after a while finished it and set it aside. He then sighed. It was not yet luncheon and he was already bored; it felt a bit like the room was closing around him. Fortuitously a knock saved him from further dwelling on this state. He rose and tugged on his waistcoat.

"Come in," Darcy said. To his surprise it was not Gillies, but his brother, who came in and hastily closed the door behind him.

"Brother," said Peter with a smirk, "I thought you might like to know that your future wife has arrived."

Darcy narrowed his eyes.

"In all seriousness, that good family has arrived. I was able to spy my mother, Mrs Jones, and Miss Jones speaking together having a cool drink in the parlour after their journey. Miss Jones is lovelier and certainly more mature than when I saw her last."

"I am glad to hear it," he said. "Though I have a confession: I saw their arrival from the viewpoint of my room."

Peter's eyes lit with mischief. "Do you not agree she is lovely? She has really flowered well into womanhood."

"I would agree that the adorable child has indeed become a lovely young lady," he capitulated, "and especially is more mature since then, at least in appearance."

"What do you mean by that?"

Darcy felt a smile touch his lips. "There was still a bit of the spark of childhood impetuousness as she emerged from the coach."

Peter let out a laugh, lightly slapping his thigh. "Somehow I am not surprised," said Peter. "Oh, apparently despite splitting their trip over two days, they shall be resting from the ride through the afternoon. I expect we shall be introduced formally at dinner this evening."

Darcy could not help but wonder why the Jones' trip would have been split in that way when it was roughly the same journey as their own. 

Peter added with a wink, "Young Miss Jones is probably wishing to look her well-rested best to impress you."

Darcy sighed and thought with resignation that he was probably right. "I think I shall return this book to the library and find another. Do you happen to know how the ladies are occupied today?"

"I do not know," replied his brother, "but I expect they too are resting in order to appear fresh as spring flowers for dinner tonight. Resting, or planning their respective strategies to conquer your heart. Heaven knows they would not collaborate on such an endeavour."

Darcy cringed inside at the thought of another evening spent in such a fashion. "It is my wish to avoid them as long as possible," he said.

"Surely they would not impinge upon your solitude, nor approach you without accompaniment."

"That is my sincerest hope," said Darcy, "though even if they were accompanied, in some ways their mothers are even worse."

Peter chuckled. "But you are, to my understanding, actively seeking a wife?"

"I am," he confirmed, "but I believe the one with whom I should ultimately settle should not make her top priority ensuring I know she wants to land me like a common trout."

"Poor, poor Lord Darcy," retorted Peter, residually amused.

Rather than walk timidly through the halls anticipating an ambush at any moment by one of the young women, he decided to maintain a chillier, distant demeanour in an effort to deflect them in the first place. Darcy made it to the library without encountering anyone but a servant, and once inside the sanctuary of books he replaced the volume he had been reading, then plucked another from the shelf. Sir Geoffrey's collection was thin when it came to books that interested him, but he figured he would avail himself of the ones that did pique his interest while he had the chance. He was all too aware that perhaps he should be making some effort with the women he met while there; like the books in the library, perhaps he should be grateful for the opportunity and focus some attention on the ladies present, for perhaps pressure from their own mothers was making them act out of character. All he truly wanted for the time being, however, was an afternoon of peace before still more guests arrived. 

In the meanwhile, he took a seat in the corner, still hoping for that solitude with his book.

He was not but a few chapters in when a faint sound stirred his attention. He turned to peer around the edge of his chair in order to determine what the source of the noise was and saw a female form drifting along the bookcases, a bonnet hanging by its tied ribbons from her wrist. Her golden hair, so unlike the dark-haired women present at dinner the previous night, told him more than seeing her face would that it was Miss Jones perusing Sir Geoffrey's collection. She was wearing a different dress than the one she had arrived in, clad now a lightweight white cotton one in the prevalent empire line. She had not noticed him there, and he was not inclined to reveal his presence.

"I do not care a whit for General So-and-so's memoirs," she muttered to herself as she picked up a volume and started leafing through it. "I suppose British generals won battles simply by eliminating enemies with ennui." She closed the book with a loud clap then stuck it back into its place. He watched her continue to peruse the shelves, and she turned in such a way to reveal her profile to him; a pert nose, full lips, a soft line to her jaw and a graceful neck. He could see as her gaze darted around that her eyes were fringed with dark brown lashes, but the hue of her eyes was as yet unrevealed. "Is there nothing good to read?" she lamented. "I may die of boredom if I do _not_ read something, and I may die of boredom if I do. Silly men and their wars."

Darcy's mirth stemmed mostly not from her commentary, but from his own choice for reading that day, one of those very biographies she was deriding. He continued to observe, noting that Peter's comments regarding her successful flowering into womanhood had been entirely correct.

She moved to another shelf, making a satisfied sound. "Now this is more like it. Though I'm not sure this is much of an improvement, gothic silliness and unbelievably daft heroines." At this comment he had to stifle a laugh, as he shared the sentiment wholly. She continued looking, humming to herself. "Oh, much better. Now, this is promising: _Tom Jones_ by Henry Fielding. Or Shakespeare? Oh!" She pulled out a thin book with a look of great satisfaction on her face. "Lord Byron," she said in a playful tone. "How about if you and I have a private conversation in the garden?" Setting the book down for a moment to put her bonnet upon her head, she then clasped the book close to her and quit the room.

Darcy was seized with curiosity. He quietly closed the book he had been reading, set it on the table beside the chair, and followed her at a discreet distance. He watched as she encountered and greeted his own mother with great affection, stopping for a short conversation.

"Bridget, again we meet," said his mother with a smile as she drew back from their brief embrace. "What have you there?"

"Poetry," said Miss Jones. "Lord Byron. A nice way to spend a sunny afternoon."

"I understand your mother wished you to stay in your room and recuperate from your journey," she said in a too-maternal tone.

"I was feeling too restless," Miss Jones said, "and I hardly need to recuperate. I sat, and a horse pulled me."

His mother smiled. "I am very much looking forward to dinner this evening and to formally reintroducing you to my sons."

Miss Jones replied, "It will be a great honour, I am sure." She spoke with all due deference, but something in her tone was a little unconvincing, and he wondered why. "So how have you been enjoying our accommodations so far?"

"Very well, indeed," said Lady Darcy.

"I am glad to hear it. Do you know the lady Mr Alconbury is set to wed? She is a childhood friend of mine from when I attended school at Miss Bangor's and I am anxious to know her again."

"In fact I do not," his mother replied, shifting the shawl on her shoulders.

"Oh, that does look lovely on you," said Miss Jones, changing subject abruptly after clearly noticing for the first time that it was the shawl she had given to her godmother. "If one can say that about mourning dress," she added contritely.

"I will take a compliment regardless of what I am wearing," his mother responded. "And your needlework is very nice. Unfortunately black on black is difficult to see."

"Much more forgiving of my many mistakes, too," Miss Jones said. "Well, I shall not keep you from your walk any longer. For my part, I have a tête-à-tête with Lord Byron." She patted the book and smiled fondly.

"I will see you later, my dear."

They parted; his mother continued on through the garden, while Miss Jones meandered towards a broad tree, beneath which her brother was idly reclined. Darcy stayed under cover of the brush, wishing to be close enough to both observe and even hear their interaction, but not be spotted doing so; he circled around behind where they sat so as not to be seen. In all truth he felt a bit ridiculous eavesdropping in such a way, and vowed not to stay for very long.

"Ah, Bridget, escaped your bonds, I see," Jones quipped, barely moving. "I felt quite certain that my mother would lock you in your room."

"I felt certain she would, as well," Miss Jones said, sitting against the tree and spreading her dress around her before opening the book. "If I am with you I cannot be harangued or be accused of running off."

"What have you there?" asked Jones, lifting his head. She held up the cover for him to see. "Oh, Lord, not Byron again."

"What can I say? He is attuned to my thoughts these days, and it is a pleasure to read his words. Shall I perhaps read some aloud to you?"

"I would thank you not to, sister dear," he said. "Instead I shall think of the fair Becca."

"And you are mocking me for my love of poetry," she said teasingly, "when you are yourself steeped in romantic thoughts. Hypocrite!"

He laughed. "If I were closer I would tug a lock of that mad hair of yours."

"You are a hypocrite," she countered with mock haughtiness, "and lazy as well."

"Besides," said Jones unabated, "I would prefer to conjure my own romantic thoughts than listen to those of another."

As their conversation lulled—she turned her attention to the book; Jones, to his thoughts—Darcy thought it might be wise at this point to retreat into the house, gather up the book he had begun, and further retreat to his quarters.

Darcy exited the library and was crossing the foyer in order to ascend the stairs when he heard his name in his mother's voice. He turned and greeted her.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked.

"Moderately," he said, though was not sure it entirely true; his thoughts were restless regarding what he had just seen. "I just came down for another book. I had finished the other."

"I suppose the figure I saw in the garden was a ghostly apparition, then?" she asked, her tone lightly teasing.

"I am not sure I understand," Darcy replied.

"I saw you out in the garden," she said. "You looked quite rapt indeed."

"I was merely curious," he said stiffly, "to see what kind of relationship Miss Jones has with my old friend. I thought it would be very informative."

She merely pursed her lips as she smiled, as if she was thinking something she ought not to say. "Go on and rest with your book," she said. "I expect you have arranged to have something sent to your room for luncheon."

"Yes," he replied.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I will see you for dinner."

He returned to his room to find a plate of cold meat and bread with butter was already awaiting his arrival. He closed the door behind him then began to pick at the food, but neither the food or the book could take him from thoughts of what he had seen. For a lady who enjoyed the approval of his mother, she was not quite what he was expecting, and that baffled him more than he wanted to admit. She stood out even now, and not just because she possessed the same honey-coloured tresses she had as a child; from what he had seen so far, he was curious to make her acquaintance, even though she did not appear to possess neither the manners nor the self-control he would desire of his wife. In fact, he was more eager to speak with her than any of the other ladies there, and this revelation surprised him a little.


	2. In which an invitation is accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW, I had chosen the year 1814 prior to realizing the dates synced perfectly with 2011. SPOOKY.

_King's Lynn_  
_Thursday, 9 June_

The hour at which dinner was to be served was fast approaching, so Darcy (with the help of his valet) took but a few minutes more to ensure his attire was immaculate before leaving his room and rapping on his brother's door. "We are expected down in the drawing room," he said through the wood.

Peter pulled it open to reveal that he too was fully dressed and ready for the meal. "Let us proceed to our fate," he said with a grin.

It was Darcy's understanding that his mother would be in the drawing room already attending the other ladies, and this understanding was proven correct when they entered that room. All of the ladies and some of the scant gentlemen present looked his way; all ladies looked, he noted, but the one with the flaxen hair. Darcy was at once approached by Lady Alconbury, who wore a very bright smile and a gleam in her eye.

"Lord Darcy, Captain Darcy," she said, seemingly adding his brother's appellation as an afterthought. "I believe there are some introductions that are in order."

He and his brother accompanied her around to the ladies and men with whom they had not yet become acquainted, seeming to intentionally leave Miss Jones until the very end. She was standing apart from her parents and though she was with his own mother and they were chatting, she was gazing through the window. She wore a dress of the same pale blue she had worn earlier, though this was clearly a different dress in a different fabric; silk, if he judged correctly. Her hair was done up in a bun and fixed with a pale blue ribbon matching her dress; delicate curls corkscrewed down, likely to frame her face, though he could not yet see to confirm. He knew it to be a very popular style that echoed ancient Greek statuary, and on her, it seemed spontaneously coiffed, fresh and natural, particularly with the golden lock that had escaped the ribbon and brushed along her shoulder.

Lady Alconbury cleared her throat in a manner that was hard to misinterpret and one that Miss Jones could have failed to hear. "Miss Jones," she said crisply though with a smile. Miss Jones as well as Lady Darcy turned slowly to face them. "It is my pleasure to introduce you to Lord Darcy of Grafton Manor."

Darcy did not hear the rest of Lady Alconbury's introduction—presenting his brother to her—for at that moment Miss Jones raised her eyes to meet his own. Instantly he understood her fondness for that shade of blue; it so very closely matched her eyes. "Lord Darcy," she said, dropping her gaze again and politely curtseying.

His brother replied with her name in a light, friendly tone and with a polite bow, during which he delivered a subtle jab to Darcy's ribs with his elbow. At this prompt Darcy realised that he had become distracted taking in her appearance and had failed to do the same.

"Miss Jones," he said coolly in reply, also bowing slightly at the waist.

His mother chose that moment to speak up. "My dear friend," said Lady Darcy. "I would most greatly appreciate your joining me to renew my acquaintance with Lady Hendricks? I have not seen her since my dear Malcolm and I went to her own husband's funeral."

"It would be my pleasure!" said Lady Alconbury cheerily, then led Lady Darcy off towards their mutual friend. Darcy could not help but feel the sudden request was a contrivance.

He turned his eyes back to Miss Jones. She offered him a small smile, one devoid of sincerity. He did not know what to say, as often was the case with new acquaintances. His brother relieved him of the duty by asking, "How was your journey to Norfolk?"

"It was an easy journey," she said, smiling at him, "surely much easier than your own, Captain. I hope the seas have been kind to you?"

"Yes, indeed, all things considered," said Peter. "I have not been relegated to the northern seas, at least, now that Napoleon is dealt with."

"Thank goodness for small favours," she said. She then went on to ask about his travels; where he had been, what sort of military action he had seen; quite frankly he was pleased to see his brother getting some attention at last, even though her questions revealed intriguing details about her own mind, like the fact that she had given recent military action any thought at all.

As their conversation hit a lull, Darcy realised he ought to participate too. He considered his observation in the library as well as what he had heard just then, and asked, "I understand you are well-read?"

She looked at him with fascination and incredulity. "I am what?"

"Well-read," he repeated, regretting the question already. "An avid reader."

"I… suppose," she offered hesitantly. "I do like reading, though I would hardly consider myself well-read, at least not by a man's standard. Sometimes Lady Darcy—your mother—is kind enough to loan to me those new books she orders from London." With a smile that seemed slightly more genuine, she added, "My father's taste is not always to my liking."

"Oh, so you have read our books?" asked Captain Darcy. "You must tell me which has been your favourite so far."

"I am not entirely sure I wish to answer that question," Miss Jones said guardedly yet playfully. "My tastes, after all, run to those things that men typically find distasteful."

"Like Lord Byron?" asked Darcy.

Her eyes flashed to him. "It is already difficult to bear my brother's teasing on this subject," she said coolly, "so I do not wish to inflict more of it upon myself."

"No offence was intended, I can assure you," said his brother. "I was merely curious. Now that I am back with a little time to read, I was looking for recommendations."

She looked mollified. "I beg your pardon, then," she said, offering a quick glare to Darcy before proceeding to describe her three most favourite volumes from his mother's recent purchases from London, including Lord Byron's tome of poetry, offering another challenging look towards Darcy.

"I do not believe he is appropriate reading for young ladies," Darcy said with equal challenge. "He is rather a scandalous figure."

"I am capable," she said, "of separating the art from the artist."

"But the artist makes the art," he retorted. "He must, by all logic, influence the art itself. It is impossible to fully divorce the two."

"As you see, it is not impossible," she said, "as I have just described having no problem doing so myself. And 'he _or_ she'."

"Pardon?"

"Artists are not always men," she said pointedly.

"I realise that," he said defensively. His brother looked positively amused. "I was just speaking in generalisations."

"Yes," she said, her lips pursed. "The generalisation that all artists are men."

At that moment dinner was announced. Those of higher ranks began to file at the door in order of precedence. "Miss Jones," said Darcy. "Allow me to escort you to the dining room."

She appeared to consider the request for a moment. "I thank you for the honour of your asking, sir," she said, though offered it somewhat resignedly as she stood beside him and placed her hand upon his arm. They then began to walk in silence towards his place in that order, then remained that way until movement began.

"Is something the matter?" he asked her quietly as they then began to file towards the dining hall.

"I wonder," she said with equal quietness, "about this ritual of our society. What could possibly happen to a lady who walked unescorted for so short a distance that would necessitate this custom? Perhaps errant bear attacks? Might she be transformed to a pillar of salt? Is there risk of abduction by one of Napoleon's allies? If there is I should certainly like to know."

As they crossed the threshold into the dining room, Darcy found himself unable to hold back a smile, then a laugh. He did not think much of it until he realised that the other ladies circulating around the table to locate their seats were regarding him in an odd manner.

He found that at the table (which seemed larger than it had the night before), he had been placed between Miss Jones and Miss Alconbury, and on Miss Jones' other side sat his brother. He was grateful for Peter's near proximity. Miss Jones and Miss Alconbury were a study in opposites, he realised; Miss Jones' subtle and unaffected appearance were countered by Miss Alconbury's dress, which would have been better suited for a ball in his opinion, and hairstyle, a bunch of perfectly round, thick curls hanging over her ears in a manner that reminded him of one of King Charles' beloved spaniels.

He held out the chair for Miss Jones, and pushed it forward for her when she was seated. He offered a polite smile and a slight bow towards Miss Alconbury, seated to his left.

To her left stood Jamie Jones in front of his own seat. Before taking his seat, Darcy offered a quick bow at the waist and addressed his old friend. "It is good to see you again," he said.

Jones grinned and did the same. "My, but we are formal these days, Mark," he said playfully. "I see you have been introduced to my sister, and that she has already managed to draw amusement from you."

Before Darcy had a chance to respond, not that he was sure what to say to Jones' statement, Miss Jones said from behind him in a very mischievous tone, "I can hear you, you know."

Jones laughed. "It seems you always can," he said. "You are evidently omniscient."

"Nonsense," she said, her smile evident in her voice. "I am merely not deaf."

"Gentlemen, you should be seated." Miss Alconbury's voice cut in icily. "The dishes are being brought out."

Dinner was a delicious, sumptuous affair; the number around the table seemed to be double what it had been the night before, at least as much as Darcy could tell around the decorations and candles on the table. Miss Alconbury attempted to engage his interest on one dull subject after another, but he was more interested in the conversation between his brother and Miss Jones. She was able to make him laugh quite frequently; not that he was difficult to make jolly, but he had definitely grown more serious since he had gone to sea.

When Miss Alconbury stopped talking long enough to partake of her dinner, Darcy turned to Miss Jones, determined to be more sociable towards the lady he had escorted in, and hoping Miss Alconbury would turn her own attention towards Jones. He was about to ask her what she thought of the salad with beetroot, but instead she spoke first. "I am very glad to see Lady Darcy so well and happy," she said with genuine affection; he followed her gaze and saw his mother chatting amicably with Mrs Jones and Lady Enderby. "Lord Darcy—I mean, your father, sir—was such a kind man; it was obvious to everyone that they had a happy, loving marriage. His passing was so unexpected…" She turned to him, looking vaguely scandalised. "I am sorry, I did not think to offer condolences earlier."

"It is all right," he said. "I will still gratefully accept them, and I thank you for being so close to my mother during her mourning period. She speaks very warmly of you."

She offered a more heartfelt smile before she returned attention to her plate. "Surely having the occasion to spend time with her sons accounts for her demeanour, as well."

"So she has expressed," he replied. "Though we barely had a few days together before coming this way. We arrived but a day before you did."

"We had intended on arriving that day as well, but…" She fell silent, then finished, "We were delayed." 

It did not feel prudent to press the subject, so he merely added, "We had a smooth ride, for which I feel fortunate."

"Fortunate, indeed," she said. "My mother merely wanted to break up the journey." She took in a deep breath, exhaled, then set her fork down.

The change in her manner was somewhat alarming to him. "Are you unwell?"

"I am quite well, thank you," she said. "I find that I do not have much of an appetite right now." With that she fell somewhat silent.

"Lord Darcy, I beg an opinion of you." It was the intrusive voice of Miss Alconbury from his left side again. He had no choice but to turn and address her. "What do you think of this brooch?" She then launched into a detailed description of the brooch, the jewels embedded in the silver, the family history, and so on. He listened attentively, as it would have been rude not to, but the silence from his right side through the rest of the meal was of some concern. He did hear his brother attempt to draw her into conversation again, but she was quite reticent and unlike the lady he had seen over the course of the day.

When the meal was finished and all rose to see the ladies leave for the drawing room so that the men could enjoy their port, she offered a quiet, "Thank you for your escort," before she departed.

The servants were in and out in what seemed like the blink of an eye, exchanging dishes from dinner for port and snuff. He watched his brother pull out a thin little object and a match, then lit the match with one of the table candles as he put it between his lips. He then proceeded to light it with the match.

"This is a new habit," mused Darcy as he loaded his own pipe.

"Picked it up in Spain, I am afraid," he said. "Pipe is not quite the same to me since." Darcy puffed deeply as he lit his pipe; his brother continued speaking. "I suppose you did not notice the Spanish artistry hanging around the neck of Miss Jones?"

"I have no idea what you mean," said Darcy.

"It caught my eye, because I recognised it to be from Seville, which she confirmed," he said, taking another draw from his cheroot. "Beautiful craftsmanship, and an inventive use of the stylised heart shape. I am surprised you did not notice it."

Darcy realised he had not noticed it because he had been too preoccupied with her lovely eyes. He told himself he would remember to observe and compliment her on it when he saw her again.

"I obtained it for her on the continent." It was Jones, whom they turned to face upon hearing his voice. "It is lovely, is it not?"

"It is," agreed Peter; Darcy himself felt an irrational sense of relief in hearing that it was a token of affection from her brother; after all, it could not have come from anyone outside her family.

As Jones and the captain began to speak of the continent in general and of Spain in specific, Darcy's gaze wandered around the room. He was startled to see Sir Geoffrey standing in very close proximity, as if waiting to speak to him.

"Sir Geoffrey, a very fine meal indeed," said Darcy, taking another puff from his pipe.

"Helped, I am sure, by the lady you escorted in," said his host with a grin. "I could not help but notice the interest you have in Miss Jones. Neither could her father."

Darcy had not thought his interest that obvious.

"You shall have a lot of work winning Mr Jones over," continued Sir Geoffrey. "Word has reached him that you were more than a bit cool towards the other ladies, and he is determined not to let his daughter near a man who cannot love her. He is extremely protective of her." 

Darcy narrowed his eyes. "And how has word reached him regarding this, exactly?"

"That is not for me to say," Sir Geoffrey demurred, which told Darcy in no uncertain terms that it had been Sir Geoffrey himself who had been the one to inform Mr Jones thus. Darcy glanced towards Mr Jones, who at that moment glanced away, but not before Darcy noticed his displeased expression. When he returned his attention to Sir Geoffrey, the man was bowing and taking his leave of Darcy.

"I could not help but overhear that, Darcy," said Jamie Jones. "I am sorry. For what it is worth, I would be honoured to put in a good word for you with my father."

"I think that is a bit premature," Darcy said, "since she hardly seems to have an interest in me."

"She can be an odd creature," said Jamie. "And she would be a fool not to be interested."

"You are kind to say so," said Darcy; he had to admit it a bit refreshing to meet a woman who was not attempting to throw herself in his path at any given moment.

It was not much longer until it was time to join the ladies in the drawing room. In all frankness, Darcy would have preferred to retire for the evening, except for the promise of seeing Miss Jones' exquisite necklace; rather, the promise of her company itself.

Darcy had the profoundest sense of repeating the events of the previous evening when he and his brother entered the room to find Miss Alison on the pianoforte, but the increased number of ladies became apparent instantly. His eyes scanned the crowd and lit upon Miss Jones in a heartbeat, but he did not wish to be obtrusive nor did he want to single her out so quickly after the observations of earlier.

Out of this sense of courtesy, he briefly spoke with Miss Enderby and then with Mrs Jones, who at least seemed pleased to speak with him where her husband would not be, and also was pleased enough to mention how happy she had been to see him escort her daughter to dinner. "I had been hoping you would enjoy her company, and she, yours," she said with a smile. "Come and speak with her again. Perhaps you can cheer her. She has been dull as anything since coming to the drawing room."

He allowed himself to be led to where Miss Jones was sitting, privately amused that anyone could consider him the cheering sort. At their approach, she looked up, then rose from her seat and did a little curtsey out of habit. He in turn bowed as her mother said, "Bridget, dear, Lord Darcy is favouring you with a visit." She turned to Darcy. "She is very accomplished, you know. She is near-fluent in French and embroiders very well, as you must have seen on your mother's scarf." For her part, Miss Jones only seemed irritated. "I will leave you to speak," she said, then withdrew.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "Anything I can get? Some tea, perhaps, or coffee?"

"You are kind to ask, sir," she said. "Perhaps a cup of coffee."

He bowed again then went to where the coffee service was, bringing back two small cups, one for her and one for himself. As he walked, he remembered then the necklace, and spotted it lying just beneath her throat as he handed the cup to her. He admired it for only a few moments when she seemed surprised by his looking, and as if in reflex her hand came to her throat to cover it.

"I was just examining your lovely pendant," he said. "Your brother was telling us that he bought that for you in Spain."

"Yes, he did," she said, her cheeks turning pink. 

"I apologise," he said. "I did not mean to cause embarrassment. I merely wished to see its detail."

She allowed a little smile. "No, I apologise. I thought I had perhaps somehow become… immodest and you were trying to be polite about it."

Darcy smiled too, but wondered if such a thing was a frequent occurrence with her; he hoped not for the sake of her reputation, though he could not honestly say that such a sight would be unwelcome to his eyes.

She took her hand away and he was able to see the heart with the distinctive Spanish/Moorish influence in its embellishment. The heart itself was fixed to the shining chain not on the top centre, but rather, tilted slightly on its side. "Very lovely, and quite unique. How thoughtful of him to bring you such a treasure."

"We are very close," she said. He was glad to see her spirits had lifted slightly. She sipped her coffee, and he sipped at his as well. He saw a frown crease her brow.

With a lowered tone he asked, "I know you said you were quite well, but is everything truly all right?"

She lifted her gaze to him as another blush tinged her cheek. "About my mother," she said. "I very much beg your pardon."

He did not understand to what she was referencing, and he said as much.

"My mother," she repeated, "was not being entirely truthful."

It was considered most improper to speak of a parent in such terms to a new acquaintance, but Darcy was intrigued all the same. "Regarding what?"

"My fluency in French is, well, non-existent. I could not speak it to save my life, and my ability to read it is even worse." She paused as if waiting for his horrified response. "As for embroidery… I was only able to finish because of my affection for my godmother. Your mother. Usually after one flower I get bored and throw it down." She turned an even brighter red. "I am sorry. I speak out of turn in seemingly accusing my mother of being a liar in order to foist me upon you. But I think it is best to be as honest and direct as possible."

Darcy was stunned. Of all of the qualities the women he had met had possessed, self-deprecation was not one of them. "I… agree," he said, still somewhat dumbfounded.

"Good," she said, smiling a bit, drinking delicately from her coffee once more, leaving him to his thoughts as he drank from his own cup. As potentially socially disastrous as it was a trait, he found it endearing that she had such poor rein on her thoughts made word. He was also charmed by how simultaneously she seemed embarrassed by it.

Once they finished he offered to retrieve another. She politely declined. "I have been monopolising your attention," she said, blushing a third time. "The others must crave your company."

"Right now," he said confidentially, "I do not crave theirs."

She lowered her gaze as her blush deepened. "You are too kind," she said.

"Lord Darcy." It was a new voice, the voice of Lady Enderby; he turned to see the lady accompanied by her daughter. They both wore pieces in their hair that involved a veritable pheasant's worth of feathers spraying up. He was on dutifully his feet in an instant.

"My dear daughter was hoping for your input on which piece she would play," said Lady Enderby. "Julie? Which pieces are you prepared to play?"

Miss Enderby began to list song title after song title, none of which Darcy found particularly attractive.

At a break in her litany of music, Miss Jones rose to her feet. "I must see to my mother. You will excuse me," she said hastily before curtseying and leaving.

"Such a sweet girl," said Lady Enderby as Miss Jones made her way towards her mother. "It is a pity she has been confined to the country and so underexposed to the refinements of London." As she spoke the profusion of feathers bobbed and twitched. Darcy found them unappealing, even repulsive, and would not wish that kind of refinement on anyone, especially not Miss Jones. He also suddenly felt envious of Miss Jones' escape. 

He decided on the least offensive of the offered titles, "My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair", and with a smile, Miss Enderby did a curtsey in order to excuse herself for the pianoforte. "She is an exceptional lady," beamed Lady Enderby, watching her daughter walk through the room. "She speaks French and German, she plays expertly, and her needlework is so fine it is often mistaken for painting!" She turned to Darcy again. "She will make a fine wife to a _very_ lucky husband," she said; it would have been an innocuous thing to say if not for the avaricious gleam in her eye as she said it.

"I have no doubt of this," Darcy responded. The music began, and suddenly he did not think he could bear to be in the same room with it. "You will pardon me. I must speak with my brother." It was a fabrication, but nonetheless he went straight for his brother and bade him join him on the balcony for a bit of air as well as to escape Miss Enderby's screeching voice.

The balcony was a modest escape from the music; with the door open the notes still carried out of doors, but it was at least not quite as much of an assault on the ear. He found that he and his brother were not alone; Miss Jones and her brother were also there, deep in conversation. She sat on the stone railing in a manner that most refined ladies would have considered unladylike, indeed, though did not truly compromise herself. Her back was to the gentlemen who were just entering the scene, so she spoke freely, as if she and her brother had complete privacy.

"I very nearly expected to hear birdsong coming from their collective heads," she said. Her brother laughed. "Indeed, an actual nest would not have surprised me any more than those things did! If this is what London is wearing I am well pleased not to be there! Strange that those in town are so keen to wear the adornment of a creature all too common in the country and be so proud to insult the country in the same breath—"

She stopped suddenly when she realised that, with a smirk, her brother had looked up to the Darcy men. She turned and herself looked horrified.

"I beg your pardon, sirs," she said, changing her posture to one more suitable for a lady. "I did not mean for anyone to hear but my brother."

Darcy was about to apologise for intruding so silently on their privacy, but his brother had begun to laugh, too. "Miss Jones," Peter said. "You have a frankness about you that I find most refreshing."

"Yes," said Jones proudly, reaching to tuck an errant lock back under the ribbon. "She does, does she not?"

She lightly slapped his hand to rebuff his assistance, but looked no less mortified.

Darcy realised she must have heard Lady Enderby's subtle insult for her to say what she had. "We should have spoken on our approach," offered Darcy sombrely, "so that you would know you had company." He cleared his throat. "You may count on our discretion."

"What he means is, we shall not repeat a word," added Peter confidentially, "of what is surely the God's honest truth."

She looked between the brothers, and as she did a small smile found her lips. "If anyone had to overhear," she said, "I am glad it was two men of such great integrity."

They both bent at the waist to acknowledge the compliment. 

"Well, presumably you came out for some fresh air," said Jones. "Let us all enjoy it."

They stood along the stone railing in comfortable silence save for Miss Enderby's continued playing, which proved her mother's exaggeration; it was certainly not what Darcy would call proficient. "Miss Jones," he asked, "do you play?"

"The pianoforte?" she asked in return. "I do not."

"She is quite talented on the harp, however," interjected her brother. 

"He exaggerates," she said. "I enjoy fiddling with the harp, but I hardly have the patience or the dedication required to be truly expert."

"I hope I can one day judge for myself," Darcy replied.

"Once again, you are too kind," she said demurely.

They stood on the balcony together for several more minutes, until the air became too chilly for the lady present, at which point they all went back into the drawing room. As soon as they re-emerged, Mrs Jones was beside them, smiling proudly. "I hope you have all been having a nice time," she asked, "enjoying one another's company?"

"We have been having wonderfully enlightening conversations," said Jamie Jones.

"It pleases me very much to hear," said Mrs Jones, whom, Darcy noticed, did not have a spray of pheasant feathers erupting from her hair. He approved of that, at least.

As the party split up for the evening later that night, Darcy realised that he had, despite his resolution, given very little attention at all to the other eligible ladies present. There was just something so refreshingly different about Miss Jones that, regardless of what the others would consider a lack of refinement, he found himself drawn in more and more by her. There was a small part of him, however, that reminded him that she would be a most irregular choice for a wife; she hardly met the stringent requirements he had set for himself. And yet… when he closed his eyes that evening upon getting into his bed, he could most vividly see the blue of her dress, her ribbon, her eyes, with no effort on his part at all.

………

_Friday, 10 June_

Darcy and his brother had agreed to breakfast together with their mother in her suite, which was slightly larger than their own rooms and included a small dining area. Darcy was just finishing donning his morning dress when there was a knock upon his door. He reasoned it was his brother so he called, "Come in."

He was correct. "Good morning," said Peter. "Sleep well?"

"Quite well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Very well indeed," he said. "I am less worried than ever."

"About what?"

"About your giving me a sister whose head may lay eggs. I was about to resort to dramatic plea but I think that is now unwarranted."

"I have no idea of what you are speaking," said Darcy.

"Come now, brother," said Peter with a grin. "Your preference for Miss Jones over every other lady here, even after only a day, is unmistakable."

"Nonsense," he said.

"The fact that you deny it so vehemently leads me to believe I am correct." Dropping his voice, he added, "As pretty and as vivacious as she is, surely producing an heir with her would not be at all an unpleasant task."

"Peter," he said brusquely; as scandalised as he was by his brother's impertinent comment, he had to admit (whether he wanted to or not) the thought had crossed the more vulgar portion of his mind.

Peter only laughed. "The shade of the skin around your collar tells me everything I need to know," he said. "Come now, let us breakfast."

If Darcy thought he would get peace on the subject over the morning meal, he was sorely mistaken. Not five minutes in, his mother commented as she buttered her bread, "I was pleased to see you and Miss Bridget Jones spending so much time with one another last evening. You are quite pleased with her companionship?"

Darcy did not answer, merely shot a look towards his brother.

"She did look quite adorable," she added.

"Is this all I am bound to hear for the duration?" he asked curtly.

"It would not surprise me," said Peter. "I am confident that the mothers of all other eligible young ladies this morning are planning even now how to win over your affection… or how to do away with young Miss Jones."

"Peter, that is not funny," scolded his mother.

Darcy sighed. "I did not come here," he said, "to be the topic of conversation over everyone's breakfast."

"I know," said his mother sympathetically, "but it may end up having a great influence over how you leave: with a betrothal of your own."

"I did not mean to come in order leave the Alconburys with an engagement secured. I only wished…" He trailed off.

"To see what the market had to offer," finished Peter.

"Peter, honestly," said his mother again.

"You know I am only joking," said Peter, "and that I enjoy doing so."

"It is quite all right," said Darcy, offering a smile to his oft-overlooked younger brother. "If you make light of it, perhaps I will see it in the same way." With a sip of his coffee he sighed once more. "I am quite pleased with her companionship," he admitted. "However… I do not believe she would make a suitable wife."

"In which way would she be unsuitable?" asked his mother, astonished. "Are you saying that I am not capable of recommending a young lady for my son's consideration?"

"Of course not," he said with all due earnestness.

"So, what are your reasons why she would be unsuitable?" she asked.

Darcy could not, at that moment, think of a one that did not sound like a grave offence. 

"Perhaps it is those things you consider unsuitable—her vibrancy chief among them, her willingness to speak her mind—that have captured your attention most," offered Peter.

"If you recall," Darcy snapped, "I did not wish for this to be taken to pieces over the breakfast table."

"Oh, Peter, I do believe you have hit a sore spot," said Lady Darcy with a smile. "No, I cannot imagine life with a placid, vapid woman would at all appeal to you. Why do you think she was so alluring to me for you?"

Darcy met his mother's amused gaze, and only finally did a smile find his lips. "You know me better than I thought possible," he said at last.

"And who, may I ask, do you have in mind for me?" his brother enquired with a wink.

"You need someone a little more serious and reserved," retorted his mother, "to keep rein on you. Miss Enderby, perhaps."

At this Peter smiled. 

"Just think," said Darcy, feeling his good humour return at the attention being diverted from himself, "you would always have fresh eggs at your disposal."

His mother did not understand the joke, but Peter did, and he laughed aloud.

They continued to partake of their meal in relative tranquillity. "I was thinking, perhaps, of getting in a good ride, or perhaps a spot of billiards," suggested Peter. Darcy was quite taken with the idea of riding; it would do him good to get outside and into the air.

However, as the quantity of food on their tray decreased, the cloud cover began to increase, and raindrops began to spatter the windowpanes. "Billiards it is," said Darcy wryly.

With the assistance of one of the servants they located the billiards room. Upon opening the door they were startled to find the room was already occupied, and that currently bowing down over the table was in fact a lady. She immediately righted herself and turned to face the newcomers, even as she flushed bright crimson.

It was unsurprising to Darcy that the lady was Miss Jones. She was playing against her brother, and was apparently about to make a key shot. Even as Darcy was not surprised, he said in a tone that spoke of restrained outrage, "Jones, unpardonable, allowing your sister to engage in billiards."

"My brother is not my keeper," said Miss Jones in a tight voice, "and in fact we play quite frequently."

Her brother stepped in to her defence. "I taught her so I would have someone with whom I could practice without losing actual coin." Jones chuckled. "Truth be told, I would owe her an estate if actual wagers had been placed."

She looked down demurely but could not hide her pleased smile.

Jones continued, "If you like, we could expand our game to four players."

Peter accepted with glee, but Darcy said, his voice stone cold, "Absolutely not."

Miss Jones merely lifted her chin, a very mischievous fire in her eyes. "Are you afraid of being defeated by a mere girl?"

Darcy felt his jaw firm, knowing he should refuse even as he felt himself wishing to take up her challenge most vehemently. His silence was easily and correctly interpreted as an assent, though, and Jamie, with a grin, proceeded to assemble the balls for a new game.

Darcy had to admit that she was very good; with cue in hand, she scored point after flawless point. Peter could not contain how impressed he was; Darcy was fairly impressed, himself, but he took care not to be so transparent.

The Jones team—which is to say, Miss Jones, as she took all of the shots—won the game. Darcy wondered if he had been holding back without conscious thought because his opponent was a female, and before he could think better insisted they play again. This left his brother and his old schoolmate looking surprised and amused, and Miss Jones, quietly victorious.

"I would be honoured to play again at Lord Darcy's request," she said in the most demure voice he had heard her use thus far as she did a little curtsey with the pool cue still in hand. If he had not guessed she was mocking him, her little irrepressible smile would have given it away.

The second game was a closer margin of victory, but the brother-sister team won again; the Joneses proved to be too big a challenge for the brothers Darcy. With a more unabashed grin, Bridget put her cue back and it was only then in restoring the gloves to her hands that Darcy realised she had been wearing none. "If my brother will accompany me outside, I can then proceed with a little refreshment," she said, then turned to Darcy. "I beg you gentlemen pardon me."

He stiffly bowed then watched them head for the door, and she retrieved her bonnet from a table as Jamie said in explanation, "We told our mother a little fiction, that we were having a walk outside prior to the rain. I believe she is suggesting we complete the ruse before we can continue to our rooms."

Peter chuckled, but Darcy merely turned his gaze to Bridget, who was tying her ribbon and offering a mischievous smile.

"Have a pleasant walk," Darcy offered. "Try not to soak yourself to the bone or get your hem dirtied six inches up with mud."

"I will do my best," she said.

Darcy and his brother silently began another game as was their habit when together; there was no discomfort or awkwardness about it. Darcy's heart was not in it, however; he could not get his mind off of the spirited game with the equally spirited Miss Jones. He was also disturbed by her brother's apparent lack of concern in allowing her to take a walk in such dreadful weather. It seemed incredibly irresponsible and reckless.

"You look troubled," said Peter, snapping him out of his fugue.

"I am, a little," he said. "Terribly reckless of Jones."

"I do not follow."

"Miss Jones could fall feverish," he said, his brows knit as if this should be obvious. 

When Peter said nothing, Darcy looked up to see why; instead of concern or consternation, he only looked amused. "Brother," he said, "I have never seen you closer to wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"I cannot imagine to what you are referring," shot back Darcy in a regrettably defensive tone. "You would be heartless not to concern yourself over a young lady falling ill."

"I _am_ concerned," said Peter, "but it is not occupying my every thought and ruining my ability to score in billiards."

Darcy pursed his lips. "You are exaggerating."

"You are what I would call 'smitten'," countered Peter.

"Now you are being ridiculous," said Darcy. "Please, shall we drop the subject, finish our game, and find some refreshment ourselves?"

Peter grinned. "Perhaps instead a walk in the rain so we can have even more in common with Miss Jones?"

"I think putting in an appearance in the drawing room would be adequate," Darcy replied. "I have not done my social duty."

He knew what Peter was thinking but did not say in response: that this was to do with Miss Jones again. "Let us finish our game, then," said Peter, "and we can commence to your solemn duty."

Captain Darcy took the game, naturally, and after they ensured the gaming paraphernalia was stowed properly for the next gamers. They were crossing the foyer when the front door opened, and to Darcy's surprise it was Jamie Jones and his sister just returning from the very wet outdoors. Despite the sodden nature of her dress and the mud on her hem, despite the way her bonnet was dangerously close to losing its structural integrity, her eyes were shining and her cheeks were bright with colour.

"Oh!" she said, startled as she nearly ran into Darcy. 

"My apologies," said Darcy. "I should have paid more attention to my surroundings."

"You are too kind," she said. "It is I who am distracted."

"Yes," said her brother. "We must get you into a more presentable, dry state."

"You will not convince me that a walk in the rain is not a wonderful, refreshing diversion," she said.

"Even if your dress is ruined?"

"That was worth it," she said smugly. "I was able to free that little fox."

Darcy could not stop himself from barking: "Free a fox?"

"Oh yes," she said. "His little paw was all caught up in a trap. He was not bleeding or anything, at least not that I could tell, since the spikes had not pierced him… but he got away as soon as we worked it open."

Darcy shot a livid glance to Jamie. "You assisted in this madness? Foxes can be vicious, dangerous, cruel creatures."

"It was either help," said Jamie, "or let her do it herself. She was not to be dissuaded."

"You are speaking as if I am not present and capable of responding," Miss Jones said hotly. "I was not about to leave a defenceless baby fox to die in a trap. Besides, fox hunters could be described in very similar terms, could they not?"

Her forthrightness in responding left Darcy speechless. More worrisome still was that he could not decide whether or not he wanted to throttle her or take her in his arms, neither of which was appropriate in the foyer of their hosts' house. Miss Jones took advantage of his silence by pardoning herself, curtseying perfunctorily with an impish grin, then ascending the stairs. With a resigned expression, Jamie took his leave as well.

"I cannot believe it," said Peter as they continued on to the drawing room.

"I too am astounded," said Darcy in a quieter, exasperated tone. "To speak to us like that where anyone could have heard…"

He drifted off when he realised Peter was chuckling. "No, dear brother. I cannot believe you were left with such a loss for words."

Darcy set his jaw firm. "You cannot tell me that she did not speak out of turn."

"It is possible she did, but she spoke her mind," said Peter secretively, "even if the opinion is not a common or popular one. I respect that, believe it or not, and it is far preferable to listen to spirited debate from a lady than to tolerate Miss Enderby extolling her non-existent talents. Lord in heaven, I hope Mother was making a joke about her."

"A lady speaking her mind is itself not a common or popular opinion," Darcy replied.

"True," he said, "but _you_ cannot tell _me_ that you did not enjoy that, at least a little bit."

Darcy did not respond, which caused his brother to laugh again.

Upon arrival to the drawing room, they found the room was also occupied by several other fellow guests. Darcy and his brother took up a position by the window, offering them a grand view of the rain-soaked countryside.

"I hope this rain lets up," commented Peter. "I understand there's a hunting party to be arranged, the second morning after the ball."

"I heard mention of this," said Darcy. "Very odd. Do you know why?"

"Heard something about the county being overrun with foxes due to a dearth of hunting over the winter."

Darcy nodded in comprehension. "We have a few days until that, yet," he said, regarding the concern over the weather on the day of the hunt. He then sighed. "We should, I think, make our way around the room."

The first they encountered was an overwrought Mrs Jones. "Good afternoon, sirs," she said, wringing her hands. "I wonder might I beg a favour. I have not seen neither Jamie nor my Bridget all morning, and I am so worried for them. If you might be so kind as to mount a searching party for them…" Her blue eyes searched Darcy's pleadingly.

"I would be happy to do so," said Darcy, "but it will not be necessary. We have only seen them just a short while ago returning from their walk."

Mrs Jones' expression turned from one of concern to slight horror; she obviously knew how her daughter's appearance must have been affected by the rain.

"I can assure you she was looking quite well, happy and in high spirits," continued Darcy. "She was only slightly dampened by the rain."

"You worry too much, my dear." It was Mr Jones' voice approaching from behind Darcy. "Jamie would never let anything untoward happen to her." Mr Jones turned his gaze to Darcy, as if just acknowledging his presence. "Lord Darcy," he said, his overall demeanour cool, warming slightly as he added, "Captain Darcy. I am glad to see you returned and in good health."

"And in one piece," Peter added jovially. "Thank you, sir. I believe Miss Jones said something about refreshment, as well. I am sure she and her brother will be returning to the drawing room soon."

Darcy was himself in the mood for a little luncheon, but wished to be present for Miss Jones' return. His reward would not be long in coming. She entered the room with her hand through her brother's elbow, bright in what must have been her favourite shade of blue, hair much tidied, her expression one of cautious contrition.

"There you are, my dear." Her father walked forward to take her hands and kiss her cheek. "Your mother was in a froth about your walk but I assured her you were in good hands with your brother."

"Very good indeed." She looked to the Darcy brothers, to Mark in particular, seemingly asking without words how much they had divulged.

"We were just assuring your good mother that you were returned from your walk out of doors," spoke up Darcy. "You are feeling much refreshed after some luncheon?"

"Yes, sir, I am," she replied, then spoke to her mother. "We took so long because we stopped to take refuge under the gazebo during the most concentrated of the downpour. I am sorry if we worried you, Mama." As she said this, she smiled prettily, almost innocently. She then looked to Darcy again. "I thank you for helping to ease my mother's mind."

He bowed a little at the waist. "It was the least I could do."

During this exchange, Darcy noticed that Mr Jones had leaned in closer to Captain Darcy to say something quietly. Peter in his turn smiled and nodded. Although they had not yet spoken to anyone else in the drawing room, the need for some nourishment was becoming impossible to ignore. "If you will pardon us, Lady Darcy expects us for luncheon." He bowed again, as did his brother and the rest of the gentlemen present. Miss Jones and her mother offered a curtsey. 

Once away from the others, Darcy was about to ask what Mr Jones said so secretively to Peter when his brother offered it directly. "Mr Jones knows his children too well," said Peter quietly. "Turned to me and said, 'Billiards, was it not?'"

At this Darcy nearly laughed aloud. 


	3. In which a lady is rescued, and rescues in her turn.

_Friday, 10 June_

"You have put in quite an effort this evening," commented Lady Darcy as they met at her rooms before descending for the evening.

"I have simply dressed for dinner," Darcy replied. 

"I thought perhaps it was that you were wearing the green suit," she said, "but no, it is more than that." She brushed her hands over his jacket lapel. "Your hair is combed to precision, and I would swear that your sideburns were measured with a draughtsman's ruler."

"You are exaggerating," he said, somewhere between amused and embarrassed that the effort was noticeable.

"She is not," offered Peter. "But you do look very well, indeed, brother."

"Thank you, but I am still not satisfied with the cravat," Darcy said, fussing with said object in front of the looking glass.

"It looks as it always does, as if tied by God Himself," said Peter. 

"Now you truly are exaggerating," said Darcy. He did not care at all that his efforts were being so thoroughly scrutinised.

"Miss Jones will appreciate it."

Darcy shot his brother a glare that unfortunately said more than words would have.

"Oh, so Miss Jones has continued to attract your attention, despite your objections?" His mother looked pleased. "I thought she might."

"Please," he said intemperately. "I wish you would all just… not speak of it."

Both his mother and his brother smiled but said nothing more on the subject, only motioned that they should go downstairs.

After the requisite time in the drawing room, during which Darcy made himself exchange small talk with other individuals, he approached Miss Jones and again offered to escort her to the table: "Miss Jones," he said with all due seriousness, "will you do me the honour of allowing me to defend you from wild bears?"

At this she laughed and accepted, but the little wink she offered told him she still thought the idea of an escort to dinner was a bit absurd.

They were seated as they had been the night before, and he bore the meal with seemingly unlimited patience. Upon the offering of the main course, he heard Miss Jones speak out against fox hunting, knew it had been on her mind since rescuing the cub earlier that day.

"Miss Jones," he said, not wishing to draw too much attention to the conversation, "they have to be hunted for the protection of the livestock. Have you ever seen what a fox does to a chicken?"

Pointedly she looked to her plate. "No," she said, looking back to him, "but it cannot be any worse than what the cook has done. Do you mean to hunt the cook, as well?"

He heard Peter laugh politely from her other side. He said in a very low tone, "Do not take it so such a ridiculous extreme."

"If the rationale to hunt foxes is based on outrage due to the death of some chickens," she said, "I hardly think that is the fault of the fox, for that is what foxes are meant to do."

Darcy thought about a response, but when he saw that two or three others around the table had pricked their ears in their direction, he reasoned it was probably best to cease participation. He did not care to concede in a disagreement, particularly when he believed he was in the right, but discretion was, after all, the better part of valour.

He returned to his meal of chicken and said nary another word, not even to Miss Alconbury, who nattered away incessantly about a new needlework project she had just begun.

After the meal the ladies went, as before, back to the drawing room, while the men enjoyed their port and pipes. This evening Darcy begged a cheroot from his brother. "I did not think to bring down my pipe," he said.

"Too concerned about the perfection of your cravat," he said, handing one to him.

Darcy lit the cheroot and took a draw. He was pleasantly surprised by it, and instantly understood his brother's like for them. 

"Darcy," came a familiar voice from behind him, Mr Jones.

"Yes, sir, to what do I owe the honour?"

"I would thank you not to draw my daughter into delicate discussions at the dinner table," he said. "Ladies in polite society do not speak of such things, and I do not need you encouraging her."

Darcy did not recount to him the fact that Miss Jones had begun the talk of fox hunting, as that would have been disrespectful. Instead he merely bowed at the waist and said, "My sincerest apologies. I shall be more mindful in the future."

Mr Jones gave him a scrutinising look before bowing slightly himself, then walking away to where Sir Geoffrey was regaling a group of old men with some story or another. Darcy walked to the window, retreating into his thoughts as he peered outside, taking additional draws of tobacco smoke. He sensed his brother had joined him, and though he did his best to project that did not really want to talk, Peter seemed unwilling to let him be.

"I think I can explain his demeanour," Peter said quietly. "Sir Geoffrey told Mr Jones about the activities of the night before his arrival, including the unfair slighting of his own daughters, in his eyes, anyway. He undoubtedly painted you in an unkind light."

This was something Sir Geoffrey himself had alluded to, but he did not realise it was so commonly known. "Where did you learn this?"

"I inadvertently overheard Mr Jones and Mrs Jones talking. Mrs Jones apparently thinks very highly of you for her Bridget; Mr Jones was explaining why he did not."

Darcy did not say anything for many minutes. "I fail to understand why Mr Jones should continue to object so greatly to my not preferring another man's daughters when I have been quite attentive to his own."

"I believe there was great objection to not only the dismissal itself, but to the curtness of your reply, and the apparent lack of sensitivity to the ladies in question."

Darcy looked around and found Mr Jones still where he had been with Sir Geoffrey. Darcy was determined to clear the air with the man immediately. "I think it best not to allow Mr Jones to persist under a misapprehension," he said. "If you will pardon me."

"As always."

With purposeful strides he crossed the room towards where these men stood, depositing the end of the cheroot into a tray for that purpose. He met Mr Jones' eye, and as he did willed himself to wear his most personable expression. "Sir, if I may have a private word with you…"

"Of course," he said, duly surprised. Only belatedly did Darcy realise how the other men present might interpret this request for a confidential conversation, given that they had also surely noticed his attention to Mr Jones' daughter.

"There is a misunderstanding I would like to make clear," Darcy added to stem the tide of speculation.

"By all means," Mr Jones said, still too taken aback to maintain the previously displayed offence.

Without words Darcy indicated they should leave the room for another, and since the library was near they entered that room and closed the door for additional privacy.

"I think it is best to be as honest and direct as possible," said Darcy, facing the man, echoing Miss Jones' own words. "I believe that based on an interpretation of a particularly unpleasant mood I was in the night of my arrival, before your family's own, you may have an erroneous impression of me."

Mr Jones' eyebrows raised in unmitigated astonishment.

"I have had the attention of many fine ladies, sir, due to my recently changed status as the lord of my family estate," Darcy explained. "I hope you will understand that such unrelenting attention can, at times, be draining."

Darcy thought he saw the corner of the man's lips twitch with a reluctant smile. "Paraded about like a show pony," he said wryly.

Whether he meant Darcy himself or the ladies, Darcy was not sure, but he kept on speaking. "I only wanted you to know that what may have observed from me on the night in question is not indicative of my usual overall demeanour. While I do not walk around with my emotions in evidence, I do at least typically show a modicum of courtesy, and that I did not is evident, for which I am truly sorry."

Mr Jones studied Darcy for many silent moments. "I can see you are earnest to convince me of this, for whatever reason I can only conjecture. If that reason is the one I suspect it could be, I must be equally frank with you about what I want for my daughter."

It appeared that Mr Jones had also made some assumptions. Darcy let the man speak.

"My wife, your good mother and even Lady Alconbury (despite the apparent affront felt by Sir Geoffrey) greatly desire a match between you and my Bridget," he said with deadly solemnity. "You are a man of plentiful means and titled as well, and I suppose that in and of itself is enough for some fathers. I will, however, never stand for any match that does not bring her as much love and happiness as the match with my own wife, or the loving union your own parents enjoyed so much. If your intentions are to settle on a convenient and willing lady, or to only please the elders around you, then I shall have none of it."

It was Darcy's turn to feel dumbfounded. "Sir," said Darcy after collecting his thoughts, "if it were my intention to settle for the first convenient woman to come my way, I would even now be celebrating my fourth or fifth wedding anniversary. I have only just met your daughter. I only wish to know her better."

He cocked a brow. "That is all?"

Only then did he feel comfortable enough to smile. "For now, I suppose," he said. "I am quite intrigued by her company. She is intelligent but not stiflingly bookish; witty without being acrimonious. I feel I can have discussions with her without her resorting to tactics often employed by other accomplished ladies."

"Which is to say, flattery and the flipping of a fan."

"Yes, sir."

Mr Jones' regard was still wary, but less so than before. "She is not perfect, sir. We have all spoilt her a bit; myself and Mrs Jones, but especially her elder brother, who has never denied her an indulgence—yes, I know about the billiards, and I know you know. She is stubborn and impulsive, always ready to say the topmost thing on her mind without regard for tact." Darcy began to feel as if Mr Jones was trying to talk him out of his interest, until he went on: "Make no mistake, I am very proud of her for these reasons, and I do not wish to ever see her spirit broken."

"Mr Jones, sir," Darcy said fervently. "I would not wish to change her in any way. I very much like her— _admire_ her—just as she is."

The vehemence of his words surprised Darcy nearly as much as it seemed to surprise Mr Jones. He blinked in amazement, then allowed a more genial smile. "Very well," he said at last. "You have convinced me that my good friend merely caught you in a less than amenable mood. After all, it is a lengthy journey."

Darcy felt the storm had passed, and smiled more broadly in return. "One that you wisely split into two days."

"Ah, yes, that would be Mrs Jones' doing." To Darcy's surprise, Mr Jones extended his hand in expectation of a handshake. "No hard feelings, I trust."

Darcy accepted, and the man's grip was firm and solid. "None at all."

"We should soon join the others in the drawing room," suggested Mr Jones, "before they send a search party out for us."

As they walked to the drawing room together, it occurred to Darcy that he felt suddenly lighter in spirit; he had not quite noticed how much inner debate had been raging over what he _should_ be looking for in a wife and what he really wanted. He realised in that moment that whom he really wanted _was_ Miss Jones. It felt fantastically impulsive; it felt wonderfully freeing.

Upon arriving to the drawing room, Darcy was dismayed when he did not see Miss Jones; and he remained this way until he noticed she had taken a place by the fire, a small book opened on her lap and into which she was writing furiously with a drawing pencil. Before he had a moment to react, however, several ladies—Miss Enderby and the Misses Alconbury among them—approached at once from several different directions and engaged him in conversation, asking if he was well, complimenting his natty attire, enquiring after his mother's well-being, and so forth.

Solicitously he answered each and every one of their questions, tried to remain as pleasant as possible, but his eyes were drawn for more than one moment back to where Miss Jones sat, could not help but notice the amused expression on her face, the smile playing upon her lips, and as her eyes looked up to meet his her smile did not diminish and she did not cease writing. At this he was certain that she was writing about him.

It seemed he was not the only one certain about this. He saw in the periphery of his vision that Miss Enderby had detached herself from the cadre that had surrounded him, and made a direct path to Miss Jones.

"Miss Jones!" she said brightly. "What are you writing, sitting here all on your own?"

"Miss Enderby," she said cordially. "I would prefer not to share as it is a private collection of thoughts for my amusement."

"Miss Jones," Miss Enderby said insistently, "you _must_ share your wit and wisdom with us. I am certain your observations are not to be missed."

Darcy could not help but think that whatever her observations were could not possibly be of a flattering nature.

Miss Enderby seemed determined to speak with her and even more determined to see what she had written, and to effect that end she went to stand to the side and rear of her. With her left hand, Miss Jones shielded the page then snapped the book closed. Miss Enderby made an indignant noise at being thwarted.

"I think it is very rude to sit in a room full of people and be so inwardly focused," said Miss Enderby. "If you must write in a drawing room, you should share what you are writing."

"In a room such as this one full of sociable people," countered Miss Jones, "why are you so doggedly persistent in talking to the one person who seems least inclined to respond?"

Miss Enderby's expression soured. "I do not understand why _you_ persist in such rudeness."

"If it is rude to be honest, then yes, I am rude," Miss Jones retorted. "Why do you persist in knowing my personal business?" Darcy noticed Miss Enderby slightly but sharply withdraw from the edge of the chair. "What I write is for my own reference and for no one else. That I choose to do it in a more public venue does not tacitly mean I have agreed to share it."

Darcy thought it might do well for him to interrupt before things escalated. He stepped forward. Miss Enderby noticed him first and transformed her features into the picture of angelic innocence, a placid smile settling on her lips. "Lord Darcy," she cooed. "How kind of you to join us."

Miss Jones briefly glanced up to him, acknowledging his presence with an unblinking gaze before turning her eyes to Miss Enderby again.

"Miss Enderby," he returned. "Miss Jones, would you like for me to escort you to your brother?"

"What?" she asked, looking to him once more. "Why?"

"I…" He paused, then reconsidered the words he had been about to speak in order to persuade her to step away from this disagreement would likely only fuel another. Instead, Darcy decided to outright lie, thought he would be forgiven after she realised he had rescued her as much as she had rescued him. "I was asked if I would."

She could not hide her astonishment. He extended his hand towards her—both out of consideration, and, he thought meanly, to vex Miss Enderby—and after a moment she took it with her own smaller gloved one. He spotted the exquisite necklace again, but forced his eyes away. With his assistance she rose to her feet, bringing the book up to her chest protectively. "You will pardon us," said Miss Jones, her voice back to a more genial tone. "My brother awaits."

Miss Enderby offered Darcy a stiff smile and curtseyed. There was little more she could do.

Darcy spotted Jamie Jones by the coffee service and led her towards him. He could only hope that Jones would follow his lead, and that Miss Jones did not notice they had merely traversed a single room.

"Jamie," Darcy said upon their approach. "Your sister."

"So it is," he said. 

"I understood you wished me to bring her to you." Darcy gave him a penetrating look, willing him to comprehend.

"Oh, yes, too true," Jones said with the slightest hesitation, continuing to give Darcy a questioning look until he looked with a soft expression to his sister. "I had found some paintings I thought you might like to see in a room we have not yet explored together."

"Oh!" she said. "Delightful!"

Jamie looked to Darcy again. "Mark, my friend, you will join us, I hope?"

"I would be delighted," he said. "I have a great fondness for good art."

With that the three of them departed from the drawing room for a room that Darcy sincerely hoped existed; for propriety's sake, Jamie was between the two of them. Darcy was sure there were many feminine eyes upon them as they went.

"What is this about?" Jamie asked confidentially once they had entered the room and she had begun examining one of the paintings at close range.

"I had wanted to speak to your sister," said Darcy, "but I ended up rescuing her from getting into an unseemly verbal spar with Miss Enderby. I am surprised you did not hear the exchange."

"I was too busy getting an earful from her father and Alconbury," he said. After a moment, he said thoughtfully, "Did you still want to speak with her?"

"I would like to," said Darcy.

"Is this something for which you require… privacy?"

"No," he said quickly. "You may remain, and in fact I insist upon it."

"I trust you as a friend and a gentleman, but at your insistence, I shall make a deep study of that pastoral landscape on the far wall," said Jamie. "If you want my attention, you need only call for me."

Darcy tipped his head. "My thanks."

As Jamie went towards the painting he had indicated, Darcy approached Miss Jones. "Very impressive work," he said, looking at a portrait of a man who looked too much like Sir Geoffrey to be a coincidence.

"Yes," she said. "It almost looks like he might start talking with us at any moment." She turned to him. "So did you bring me to my brother in order to keep me from stepping in a pile of dung?"

It was a colourful metaphor, to be sure. "I do not know of what you speak."

"I have known my brother long enough to know when he is playing along," she said, "and he is most certainly playing along, not to mention the ludicrously short distance you walked with me. It is not as if my brother is a feeble old man."

He could not dispute her reasoning when he had himself suspected she might guess. "There was no elaborate plot to get you away from an argument," he said, "but you must agree that, deliberate or not, you were being provocative."

"I do not agree to anything of the sort," she said testily, her skin flushing. "Explain your meaning."

"Bringing a daybook in which to write in full view of your dinner companions," he said. "Surely you knew that would pique curiosity, invite others to approach to try to strike up conversation, and yet you seem surprised by this when you start to write, as if you do not wish such interaction at all. If you preferred to be left in solitude to continue your writing—"

"I did not wish solitude, though it seems I got it all the same," she interrupted, indicating the empty room around them. "I only wished for my words and thoughts to have a level of privacy for which I should not need to specifically ask."

"You should be mindful to how others interpret your actions," he said, "and learn to anticipate which responses are likely to be the result."

She looked at him with clear irritation. After a moment, she said coolly, "Lord Darcy. Did you bring me here under false pretence in order to give me a lecture on social graces?"

He blinked, surprised that she would speak to him in such a way. "Of course not."

She set her jaw firmly then looked again to the painting. This was going exactly the opposite way than intended.

"What I mean to say is," he continued, "is that I find your company most intriguing, and I meant only to speak with you here in the interest of strengthening our acquaintance. I apologise for… the lecture."

Her blue eyes turned back to him; he could see there was doubt in them still, but the glow of amusement could not be disguised. "I would swear to God," she said, "that you cannot help yourself."

"I do not understand."

"You come by your title honestly," she said, a half-grin on her lips. "Telling people what to do comes naturally."

He knew she must be teasing, but found it difficult to believe she could so quickly turn her mood around. "I am the eldest son, after all," he said tentatively. "I was bred to do so."

At this she laughed lightly.

They took a look around at the rest of the paintings. Miss Jones had some definite opinions about the subjects of those portraits, commenting on a pointy nose here or beady eyes there, and she made him chuckle on more than one occasion because he could not help but agree. Darcy was able to offer opinions on technique based on what he had seen in his travels to Italy and elsewhere on the continent during his abbreviated Grand Tour. The very mention of it lit her eyes with glee. "I would so love to travel like that," she said wistfully.

His first consideration upon this declaration was how much he would love to see one of the old galleries in Florence or Venice with her. "It is breath-taking," he said.

"So I have heard," she said. "Maybe one day."

She seemed equally entranced by the landscapes, perhaps even more so, since they were as a window to a place to which she had never been. "Sometimes I feel cheated," she said, "that I was not born a man…. I would have liked to have had the freedom to travel and not be consigned to embroidery, constant chaperoning, and having to content myself only with Jamie's tales."

As his eyes betrayed him and drifted past her silver necklace to the curve of her bosom, he could not help but think, _Thank God you are not a man._ The importance of her words, though, took a moment to trickle through: most women he had met proclaimed they wanted nothing more than to be wife and mother, and most men he knew preferred to hear it, particularly when the woman was someone he hoped to make his wife.

Before he had a chance to reply, she sighed and looked away from the painting, a pout gracing her mouth. "I know that is an ungracious thing to say," she said. "I am not ungrateful for the comfort my family can provide to me, believe me. It is just all so… stifling."

In his own way he understood: he had his own societal pressures. "It does not offend me to hear you say it," he said, "but being the eldest son is not without its own restrictions."

She smirked. "I am sure that is true," she said. Looking to him again, she said, "I suppose I should be thankful for you saving me from continued conversation with that insufferable Miss Enderby."

"I was only too happy to do so, and you may be thankful if you wish," he said, "but it was not you alone I was saving from her."

At this she began to chuckle. "I thought men preferred to be flattered by beautiful women whenever possible."

He did not think Miss Enderby beautiful—though he supposed she was considered so by society's standards—and he certainly did not prefer to be plied with flattery over substantive conversation. He was about to voice his vehement dislike of being lumped into that category of men, but noticed her playful expression and realised she was making the comment in jest. "Some men do," he said finally. "I am not one of those men."

"That is admirable," she said. "Plus I am terrible at flattery, so we would have nothing at all about which to speak."

At this he laughed a little.

The sound of a little cough startled him. He had almost forgotten that her brother was there, and he turned to see Jamie sitting on a chair, tapping his foot; instead of looking bored senseless, however, he looked extremely pleased. "Sorry, did not mean to interrupt," he said, "but thought it might be wise to join the drawing room before the party splits up for the night."

"Surely it will not do so yet."

"Darcy," said Jamie, "we have been here an hour and one-quarter, if my pocket watch is to be trusted. I am sure we have been missed by now."

Darcy could scarcely believe it, but had to reason to doubt the veracity of what his friend had said. "You are right, we should return." He was filled with dread at the thought of what he knew awaited him. 

"Perhaps if the weather is more agreeable tomorrow," said Jamie, "we could all of us stroll around the grounds? If they are half as beautiful as they look rain-sodden, then they are surely a wonder under bright sunlight. Your brother could join us as well."

"Or perhaps another game of billiards?" said Miss Jones impishly. 

"Instead of a walk?"

"Instead of returning to the party."

Jamie laughed. "Incorrigible. For the sake of propriety I really must insist that we go back."

"All right," she said, though sounded disappointed. She turned to Darcy. "How do you feel about a walk tomorrow, my lord?"

There was something very alluring to him about the way she addressed him, as if she was teasing him even though she respected him. "I very much approve of the idea," he returned. "However, I am in need of solitude, myself. If you would be so kind as to make my excuses for me…"

She still had her daybook in hand, and at this she brought the red volume up. "Have you some writing to do?" she asked, referring to his earlier statement.

He smiled. "No, Miss Jones. I just cannot bear the thought of more… flattery."

The look of understanding on her features touched him deeply. "We would of course be happy to do so," she said gently. "Rest yourself for our walk tomorrow."

They emerged from the room and parted to go their separate ways, Darcy for the stairs leading up to their rooms, and Jamie and Miss Jones for the drawing room. As he ascended the curving staircase, he had occasion to glimpse Miss Jones again, and was surprised to see her glancing back to watch his ascent. He smiled, nodded, and continued on his way. She for her part looked a little abashed to have been caught, and she turned forward again quickly.

Darcy had only really gotten to know her over two days in total, yet he could not help think all other ladies did not stand a chance in the race for his affection. He prepared for bed as usual, but found he could not rest, so instead read Sir Geoffrey's tome by candlelight until his lids could not longer stay aloft. He snuffed out the light then fell to a less than restful sleep.


	4. In which preferences are made known.

_Saturday, 11 June_

The sun was kind enough to grace King's Lynn with its presence that next day, and as planned, Darcy, his brother (who was very keen on the idea as introduced over the morning meal) and the Jones siblings met in order to walk over the grounds. "There really is a gazebo," said Miss Jones, wearing a dress and shoes quite suitable for a walk and a fetching bonnet to shield her face from the sun's rays, "and we really did stop there for a break from the unrelenting downpour."

The gardens, while not comparable to Grafton Manor, were impressive and excellently maintained. They in fact passed at least three men tending to the shrubbery as they strolled. Jamie and Peter became quite involved in a discussion about Spain and France, and edged ahead of Darcy and Miss Jones, who walked together though at a respectable distance from one another.

"It is hard to believe how one day of enforced time indoors has made me long to be out here," said Darcy, his hands folded behind his back. "I should love a good ride too, if the horses are available. I shall enquire."

"Do you like riding?" she asked.

"Very much," he said. "Yourself?"

"I do not get much opportunity, to be honest," she said, "but I do enjoy it and am not bad at it. Jamie says I have rather a natural seat." She turned to him. "Perhaps we can organise a ride," she went on. "I think that would be quite fun."

As they continued to walk they came upon a low stone wall. Impetuously she walked up the ramp of stones on the end in order to walk atop it. It was not much higher than Darcy's knees but the sight of her up there made him a little nervous. "I think you ought not to walk up there," he cautioned. They still followed their respective siblings, though the distance between them had grown.

"I am fine," she said.

"It is dangerous," he countered.

She made a dismissive sound. "Dangerous is leading a ship into battle. This is child's play." She began to move forward in a way that reminded him very much of dance steps, pointing her toe, setting her foot deliberately down before turning in place and stepping forward again.

"Please, Miss Jones. I beg you to take care."

She stopped altogether, looking to him with an expression of contrition. "My lord, I did not mean to cause you distress," she said. "I apologise."

"Allow me to assist you down." She could not just step down, he noted, not without landing hard on her foot, or possibly causing her dress to rise to immodest heights. Without conscious thought he reached up and placed his hands upon her waist, then lifted her down and to the ground.

Almost as quickly as he had touched her he drew his hands back; what had he been thinking, placing his hands on a lady's body like that, particularly without her consent? She had flushed pink, but did not say a word of scold; she only thanked him and smiled.

"I did not mean to…" he drifted off, then added with more authority, "I only wanted to get you down safely and as quickly as possible."

"It is quite all right," she said, her voice unsettlingly quiet; they just shared a look he could not quite decipher for many moments before she added, her tone lighter and more like he was used to hearing, "I was intending on jumping so you probably saved me from spraining my ankle."

He heard footsteps coming closer, heard the rumble of low laughter. "I cannot say I am surprised to hear you scolding her," said Jamie, "as that is the norm for my sister."

She turned to her brother, her gloved hands balling into indignant fists, her temper surfacing at last, perhaps to cover her embarrassment. "You all act like I am an inept fool, as if I cannot walk a straight line atop a wall without falling."

"At ease, dear sister," said Jamie, laughing at her scorn. "I do not believe anyone present considers you either inept or a fool."

They began to walk again and converse with one another, any offence forgotten; all conversed except Darcy, whose thoughts were occupied by the remembrance of holding her waist, and of how the once fashionable corset had fallen by the wayside in favour of a natural form. He had at one time thought the structure of a good corset was essential, but now, only mere minutes ago, his mind had been immediately and irrevocably changed.

"You are suddenly very quiet," said Peter. "To what have we lost you?"

"Nothing of importance," he said in return, and rather unconvincing to his own ears. "Just enjoying a beautiful day with excellent company."

Peter seemed to have a retort on the tip of his tongue, but held it back, merely followed Darcy's gaze to where Miss Jones skipped alongside her brother, laughing at something he had said.

After a brief stop at the gazebo to admire its structure and enjoy its shade, they agreed that the temperature was becoming a little warm and that they should return to the house. Despite the warmth, and despite the intrusion on her person, she was as lively and talkative as ever, even managing to draw Darcy back out of himself for his thoughts on what dinner might be that evening, with Guy's fiancée, her apparent girlhood friend, coming to dine. Darcy had almost forgotten the wedding was to be in the morning.

They bid one another good day, then parted. Once the two brothers were in the safety (and privacy) of their quarters, Peter was quick to comment with the words he had surely been thinking earlier. "She has seemingly boundless energy, does she not?" he asked. "One wonders how it might otherwise be enjoyably employed."

"Peter!" he barked, though it did no good; the seed was hence planted in his too-fertile mind, not helped one bit by the memory of just a few thin layers of muslin between his skin and her own. 

"Do not act so scandalised," Peter said. "You cannot tell me you are so pure and chaste that placing your hands on her body did not have some effect."

"I was assisting her to the ground in the best way I could think."

Peter laughed aloud. "And there was nothing at all in it for you. My dear brother," he said, " _Mark_ , when will you admit to yourself what is so painfully evident to everyone else?"

After a pause, he asked, "What makes you think I have not?"

Peter's surprise was unmatched. After a few silent, speechless moments, he asked, "Does this mean we can expect some kind of offer from you soon?"

"No," Darcy said. "I have only just made peace with her father, and she and I hardly know one another."

"Yet you have clearly singled her out as favoured above all others."

"Do you know," Darcy said in half-jest, fishing out two cheroots from Peter's case, "that if it meant other ladies kept their distance, I would not even care if they thought us engaged."

Peter accepted one of the cheroots. "I could start a rumour if you like," he said.

"I was not serious," said Darcy.

"I know," said Peter, "but I am serious about this: if you do choose Miss Jones for your bride, you have my unwavering approval. I like her very much. I almost feel she is like a sister already."

He knew his mother's feelings on the subject, and to have his brother's approval as well was very reassuring, but it was also very premature. Darcy nodded. "Thank you."

After enjoying the indulgence together, Peter bade him farewell to play billiards with Jamie. "You were too busy speaking with Miss Jones for me to tell you sooner." 

Darcy decided to join the socialisation in the drawing room, and was glad he did, for it gave him an opportunity to get to know the groom a little better. They spoke a little of politics (Alconbury was not well-versed in current events), but mostly of the impending nuptials, with which the fellow was understandably preoccupied.

"My dear Judith does not want to honeymoon on the continent, what with French hostility so fresh in our minds," Alconbury advised. "Seaside was out as an option, as well. We are instead to spend time in Bath at the spa there."

"That sounds quite amenable indeed," said Darcy.

"It has been difficult to make arrangements over the distance," said Alconbury.

"For the honeymoon?"

"For the wedding," corrected Alconbury.

"I thought you still lived in Norfolk."

"Oh, I do, and so does Judith," said Alconbury. "But Miss Jones does not."

This surprised him; he had not known Miss Jones was part of the wedding party. "Do you have a large contingent of bridesmaids?" Darcy asked, wondering if there was a role for every lady present.

"No, just Miss Jones and Judith's sister Miss Sharon. That she did not include my sisters, her own future sisters, is still something of a sore spot with them, but she would not be persuaded, and she is, after all, the bride." Darcy sympathised. "Her brother Thomas is to be a groomsman as well as my cousin Simon, who, along with my fiancée's family, will be joining us for dinner this evening. I look forward to introducing you to one another."

Darcy began to wonder how many more people would be able to be fit in around the dining room table. He smiled. "I look forward to it as well."

Jones and his sister came into the drawing room just then, and Darcy found his eyes rise to meet hers before he stood as courtesy required. She smiled, nodded to acknowledge him, then followed her brother to where he chose to sit at the fireplace.

"I must admit I do not know Jones that well, but I am very fond of Miss Jones," said Alconbury as he watched them retreat. "She, Judith and Miss Sharon are like sisters when they are together. It is heart-warming to watch." He was silent for a moment before adding, "You seem very fond of her as well."

"I have only just met her, aside from an acquaintance many years ago," said Darcy, "but yes, I find am I growing quite fond of her indeed."

"Miss Jones!" came a voice from behind him. It was Miss Enderby. "I require your opinion on my needlework."

Darcy knew as well as Miss Enderby did that this was not a sincere attempt at garnering an opinion, but rather, to embarrass her in front of him. He resisted the urge to turn to look at the encounter.

"It is very nice, indeed," came Miss Jones' gentle reply, "and you should be quite proud. However, I am perplexed as to why you would need such an opinion from me."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I do not think it a secret that your skills with embroidery far surpass my own," said Miss Jones. "My single attempt at a kitten looked more like a gargoyle, and you could only agree with my assessment."

It was perhaps improper to do so, but Darcy chuckled before he could stifle it. It was not that her words were amusing, but rather, the casual tone that indicated she was not interested in one-upmanship. Since Alconbury's eyes—rather, _all_ eyes—were upon this exchange now, Darcy felt it was permissible to look, too. Miss Jones looked like she was going to laugh as well.

"I thought only that you had perhaps improved since then," Miss Enderby said coolly, lifting her chin.

"It was only yesterday we spoke."

With that there were more stifled laughs and Miss Enderby, noticeably embarrassed, walked away without another word.

Darcy was considering the time, thinking of finding his mother for a spot of luncheon, when he heard voices in the foyer. Moments later he saw Miss Jones fly by in a flutter of muslin, and happy, excited voices when she reached her destination. At the same time Alconbury rose to his feet with a smile on his face. Darcy could only conclude that his betrothed, Miss Russell, had just arrived.

Only part of the conversation could be heard as they entered the drawing room, three ladies—Miss Jones and whom he could only presume to be Miss Russell and Miss Sharon, one of which was raven-haired and one slightly fairer in tone—linked arm in arm in arm, followed shortly behind by a tall, thin man with dark hair and extremely natty attire. Darcy stood out of deference, as did every other gentleman present. "We have been so busy," said the brunette, "that we have not been able to come and see you, dearest Bridget. Oh, you are looking so well, indeed!"

"As are you," said Miss Jones. "I have never in my life seen you so happy, Jude!"

"I have never been so happy," went on Miss Russell. "When that vile Richard broke my heart, I did not think myself capable of happiness again, but then… my dear love Guy." Alconbury reached the ladies at that moment, took Miss Russell's gloved hands, and gently pecked her on the cheek.

"My dear friends," said Alconbury to those in the room, "may I please present to you Miss Judith Russell, my bride-to-be; her sister, Miss Sharon, and her brother, Mr Thomas Russell." The two newly introduced ladies curtseyed; their brother removed his hat and bowed. Guy proceeded to take the three of them around to everyone present for more personal introductions.

Due to the manner in which they circumambulated the room, introductions with Darcy were left until near the end, just before they would join their friend again. "I have heard many good things about you during my stay here, Miss Russell," Darcy said as he bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"And I you," she said with another curtsey. She had a high wavering voice that Darcy did not think he could listen to her for extended periods of time. "My dear Bridget has told me so much about your family, my lord; how close she is to your mother, her godmother, how deeply saddened she was at the loss of your father, for which I offer my own condolences."

Darcy smiled and thanked her, feeling oddly envious of Miss Russell's closeness with Miss Jones, specifically the ability to use Miss Jones' given name in conversation. Miss Russell's kind words and considerate tone helped alleviate the effect her voice had on him. "I wish I could offer the same kindness," said Darcy, "but I have not had the pleasure of hearing of your own father and mother. They are well, I trust? Have they not accompanied you this afternoon?"

"They are quite well," spoke up the younger sister, Miss Sharon, who by contrast had a deeper, more gravelly voice. "They have some details to attend to for the morning and mostly wished us out of their way."

"They will join us for dinner tonight," said Russell. "As, it seems, will half the county," he added wryly in a hushed voice, commentary on the number of people in the drawing room.

"Darcy, tell you what," suggested Alconbury. "Why not join us for luncheon, and we can continue our conversation?"

He looked between the three ladies and two gentlemen, his eyes settling on Miss Jones, who smiled encouragingly. "Nothing would please me greater," he said.

As it turned out, luncheon was offered as a spread in the garden, to which everyone in the house was invited to partake. Darcy, as invited, sat with Alconbury and his fiancée, her siblings, and Miss Jones. He saw his brother, in the company of their mother, had already begun to eat, and when he saw Darcy, he looked pointedly to Miss Jones, back to Darcy, then raised his brow inquisitively. He ignored it.

Lunch was pleasant; the Misses Russell enquired about their journey and whether or not they had been having a pleasant time in Norfolk. "Quite pleasant," said Darcy. "There is no end of diversion here in the house."

"We had rather a fun game of billiards," said Miss Jones. Darcy noted that Guy looked surprised. She added, as if realising her misstep, "The gentlemen allowed me to assist. It was Jamie and I against Lord Darcy and his brother, Captain Darcy."

Russell laughed. "Lord Darcy, did she leave you with a ha'penny to your name?"

As Darcy reeled from wondering how Russell knew of Miss Jones' propensity for billiards, Miss Sharon asked, "Your brother, my lord? I do not recall being introduced to a Captain Darcy."

"I would be happy to do so." Darcy raised his eyes and as he expected Peter was still observing their group. At this apparent cue, Peter rose and came towards them. _As if connected by thought he knows to join us_ , thought Darcy.

Introductions were made all around; Peter was invited to stay with them, and when he saw his mother was duly attended by her friends, he agreed. Miss Sharon and Russell were curious to hear about life at sea.

"I have always thought it would be endlessly interesting to be at sea," said Russell, "but ultimately a very difficult life, I would think."

"It can be physically taxing," Peter said, "with sail-hoisting and so on, but it is just as much emotionally taxing, being away from one's loved ones for long periods of time, particularly if there is a wife or children involved."

"Is that true for you?" asked Russell.

"It is not," said Peter with a smile, "and I am not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

After resting for a bit to allow for the meal to settle, Miss Jones suggested she and her friends go for a short walk. "I am completely entranced by the Alconbury's gazebo," she said, pointing to the object, which was well within view. "I am sure you have seen it a hundred times but I would love to see it again."

"Of course," Miss Russell said. Alconbury rose and said he would join them; it was unsurprising he would want to spend more time with his fiancée.

"I shall accompany you as well," said Russell, "and make sure you do not get lost or injure yourselves." He offered his arm to Miss Jones, who demurred. Miss Sharon claimed her brother instead with a playful grin. Darcy sensed the offer to Miss Jones was due to friendship and nothing more.

Darcy, Peter and Jones all remained at their table, watching the five of them walking across the meadow to the gazebo; now Darcy envied Russell's ability to go with them. Of the group, he could see that Miss Jones seemed to be the most excited of the lot, turning in circles and skipping forward as the other three merely walked normally, arm in arm. He thought fleetingly about Peter's comment regarding her energy, which he ought not to have done, but there it was, unbidden. He swore that he could make out the shape of her body silhouetted by the sun—

"Gentlemen, you have enjoyed your lunch, I trust?"

It was Lady Enderby, interrupting his thoughts with her query.

"Lunch was quite delicious," he said, glancing to her.

"Sorry, I did not mean to startle you, Lord Darcy," she continued, her gaze following where his had been. "Ah, Miss Jones," she said. "A lovely girl, a dear child, still free enough not to need a gentleman's arm."

She had meant her comment to sound like a compliment, but knew her intention was quite the opposite; she intended to point out how childish Miss Jones acted, how undisciplined she was, unlike other ladies, unlike her own stiflingly boring, pinch-faced, self-absorbed daughter. "Miss Jones has availed herself of mine on more than one occasion," he reminded. "It is quite refreshing to have her there, and I should be pleased if she were to accept it again."

Lady Enderby merely pursed her lips then offered a little curtsey before taking her leave of them.

"I do not know why she dislikes my sister so much," said Jamie once she had retreated far enough away.

"Because I do not like her daughter," replied Darcy. His two companions laughed, and he realised he ought to firm up the rein on his words. He had definitely spent too much time lately in the company of a lady who was too free with her tongue. "That was rude of me," Darcy added.

"It was the truth," said Peter. "Unkind as it might have been."

Jones demonstrated his perceptive abilities in adding, "You have been around my sister far too frequently." He rose from his seat. "I do not know how you two feel, but I could use a little walk, myself."

The three of them stood and walked towards the gazebo. As they got ever closer they saw that under the canopy of the gazebo, Miss Jones had taken off her bonnet, and those wavy flaxen tresses that had come free from their fasteners floated on the breeze. At the approach of the gentlemen she quickly made to put the bonnet back in place, but instead dropped it and it rolled off into the grass.

"Permit me," said Darcy, who followed it, bent and retrieved it for her, the pale blue ribbon silky against his fingertips as he brushed bits of grass from it. She accepted it from him with a sweet, embarrassed smile.

"I would lose my head were it not attached," she said.

"I am quite grateful it is," he said.

She tied the ribbon under her chin. "Perhaps it is my bonnet that keeps it in place, after all."

"We should return to the house," said Jamie Jones. "We will be expect to start dressing for dinner soon."

"Honestly, I feel as if I have done nothing but eat," she said. "How lucky I feel, though I may require a seamstress to alter my dress for the morning."

Miss Russell approached. "If I have to dress you in a flour sack, you will be there with me tomorrow," she said teasingly.

Darcy turned from her. "Let us be on our way," he said. "Miss Jones, may I escort you?"

She laughed lightly, then surprised him by putting her hand through the crook of his elbow. "One never knows where Napoleon's agents may be lurking," she said confidentially.

He felt the pressure of her fingers more acutely than the light touch should account for. He raised his chin, looking for and hoping that the tiresome Lady Enderby would see. Perhaps she would desist in her efforts.

One lady who was definitely pleased to see them return to the garden together was Lady Darcy. She stood and gave her goddaughter a hug. Another voice interrupted the scene with a scold: "My dear, you should take care out there. Una has the finest garden staff in the county, but even they cannot account for every dip in the terrain." Mrs Jones had a deceptively bright smile. "You should _not_ be traipsing around like that."

Darcy felt her fingers grip harder into his arm. "I think I am well tended in Lord Darcy's company," Miss Jones replied. "I hope you will walk with me inside," she said to Darcy.

"My pleasure," he said.

As they proceeded onward, he bowed his head to speak quietly to her. "Are you using me to avoid being further lectured by your mother?"

"Perhaps," said Miss Jones enigmatically. Just as he looked down upon her, she looked up to him with a half-smile; she was, by dint of her sex, smaller than he, and he felt like he towered over her. Miss Jones continued, "She can, after all, be far more terrifying than anything Napoleon could unleash on me."

He smiled, and as they entered the house she released him from her grasp and walked ahead of him a little before turning to see if he and the others were following. As he watched her ascend with her brother, Russell and her girlfriends, he did not think it his imagination that she had seemed more at ease in his company than when they first met. In fact, though he did not wish to let that same imagination get away from him, it seemed that perhaps she might even be starting to like him.

………

The evening's dinner was quite similar to the night before, and the one before that; Miss Jones once again accepted his escort into the dining room. The one notable exception was that the table place settings had been rearranged; Darcy was informed by his mother that the reason she was given was to spur conversation between different groups of people, but her private opinion was that Lady Alconbury was tired of the way her daughter was shamelessly throwing herself at him. Darcy had the honour of sitting next to Miss Russell, who was equally pleased to be so near her friend Miss Jones. The more time he spent in Miss Russell's company, the less her high-pitched voice actually seemed to bother him. She was naturally gregarious and very easy to speak with. She explained that she and Miss Jones had met while being schooled, and had been inseparable until the Russells moved to Norfolk just a few years ago.

"We kept up our correspondence," explained Miss Russell. "Bridget would come to visit during the spring or summer. During those long, cold winters, though, Bridget's letters just livened up the days. I would read them again and again, and they would make me laugh with equal amusement every time."

"I hope we continue our correspondence well into your life of wedded bliss," said Miss Jones.

"I would have it no other way."

Darcy was, for the most part, content to observe the conversation that volleyed before him between the two friends, adding his opinion when asked. The meal thus concluded, and the post-dinner port brought Captain Darcy to his side for the first time in hours. "It seems quite changed," he said cryptically, handing Darcy a cheroot.

He was beginning to regret having ever had one. "What does?"

"Miss Jones' opinion and attitude about you," he explained. "It is quite evident to see the more time she has spent with you."

If his brother had detected the change, it could not just be his imagination. 

Peter continued, lighting Darcy's cheroot from a match he had touched to the candle's flame, "It says a lot about her character, which I only continue to grow to admire and respect."

"Merely that she is growing to like me?"

"No," said Peter. "That she reserved developing an affection for you until after she actually _met_ you and got to know you, unlike some ladies who profess affection based on your status and bank balance alone."

Darcy, in process of drawing in the smoke, laughed a little, which caused him to start to cough. "You are going to be the death of me," he joked.

"You know I speak the truth," he said with a grin.

When it came time for the gentlemen to join the ladies in the drawing room, Captain Darcy immediately approached Miss Russell's group and enquired how they were.

"Quite well," said Miss Enderby, who had joined the group, evidently in the hopes that she would get to more easily interact with Darcy. Apparently, she had gambled correctly. "We were just discussing playing a game of cards." She smiled in a very smug way, her eyes sliding in a rather triumphant manner to Miss Jones, who looked like she would rather hunt foxes than play cards, particularly with present company. This was confirmed when Miss Enderby added, "We are all of us in agreement, all save for Miss Jones, who seems determined to spoil our fun and ruin our numbers at the table."

"A game of cards sounds quite charming," said Peter with a grin, stealing a glance at his brother and clearly trying to deflect Miss Enderby's rude comment.

"And Lord Darcy, if you would be so kind, you will partner up with me, I hope?" Miss Enderby said most presumptuously.

"Actually," Darcy said, "I too shall sit out, as I am not at all fond of card-playing, and I do not wish my presence to be cause for an odd number of players." Miss Jones' lips quirked in a little smile. "I will keep Miss Jones company, as well, so you will need not be concerned for your friend growing lonely or bored." Darcy saw little point in pretending any longer that he was interested in the other ladies as much as he was interested in Miss Jones.

"I would like that immensely," Miss Jones said with the first genuinely fond smile he could recall her gifting him. The beauty and the honesty of it left him feeling dazzled. With that he extended his elbow and she placed her fingertips upon it. Her smile broadened in concert with Miss Enderby's frown.

It was Darcy's natural tendency to retreat to the edge of a room, to try to not garner too much attention while at the same time observing the activity around himself to keep well-informed. By habit he escorted Miss Jones to the window, where they could reflect both upon nature and upon the social din around them.

"Curious," she said after a moment.

"What is?"

"The fact that we have withdrawn to the periphery of the room," she said. "It is almost as if you do not wish to be taken by surprise."

"By surprise?"

"In situating yourself by the wall, no one can come up behind you without your knowing of it," she went on. "I was not even really aware of your habit until just now. Were you?"

"Well, yes," he said. "I choose where I wish to be deliberately."

She grinned. "Oh, of that I have no doubt," she said. "But with greatest tactical advantage." She seemed to study his features for many moments before speaking again; he waited for the continuation he knew would come. "It is very important to you," she said at last, "to remain in control, is it not?"

He felt his hackles raise.

"I do not mean to offend," she added hastily. "I would be surprised if a man such as yourself did not prefer to be in control." She grinned a bit sheepishly. "As you can see, I am not exactly the model of control, myself."

He smiled, then looked to where his hands were folded on his thigh. "It has been said of me, particularly by my somewhat carefree brother, that I am often too much in control."

"Is that so?" she asked; something about the tone of her voice spoke of a thrill, as if she had just gotten him to admit to a scandal. "And here I thought the answer to all of my troubles would be to have more, rather than less, control over myself, my wayward mouth getting me into trouble at every turn…"

"It is my firm conviction," he said, "that you need not change a thing about yourself."

She gave him a pleased yet slightly surprised look. "You are far too kind," she said.

"And you do not give yourself enough credit, Miss Jones," he said. "Of all of the people I have spent time with here in Norfolk, the time with you has been the most enjoyable."

She smiled; far less unrestrained than earlier, but genuine nonetheless. "I did not think you the type to flatter the undeserving," she said, her expression one of comical disappointment. "However, if I have provided a haven from the hunt I am glad to have obliged."

"The hunt?" he asked, wondering to what she could be referring.

She clearly saw his confusion, and offered a sympathetic smile. "Perhaps now you can see things from the fox's point of view when next you embark on the hunt, what with the ladies here hounding you as they have been."

Her pun was not lost on him. "You would not be likening me to a fox, would you?" he asked, amused.

At this she flushed pink, even as she feigned offence. "I would never compare a gentleman such as yourself to a creature renowned for such vicious, dangerous, cruel behaviour," she said, echoing his own words.

"Even if they do manage to walk directly into the traps of others."

At this she laughed out loud, louder than even Darcy thought, for many heads turned to see what had prompted the sound.

"I am sorry," she said, blushing again. "There I go again letting my mouth run away unbridled."

"No need to apologise," he said, thinking how well the pink on her cheeks suited her. "It was not as if I discouraged you."

Post-dinner socialising wrapped up earlier than previous nights so that the bride and her family could return home and the guests could be sure to be well-rested for the festivities of the following day. They said their goodnights while the sun had not yet fully set. Darcy had not realised how much he welcomed the silence of their rooms until he was returned to them.

"If you had hopes of using Miss Jones as a shield against the onslaught of female attention," said his brother after closing the door behind them, "you should know that the plan has succeeded."

"Please, do not persist in metaphors of this nature," Darcy said, running his hand across his forehead. "I have had enough for one day."

"Why? What have you heard?"

"You must first tell me what you mean."

Peter grinned. "The ladies collectively seem resigned to your fate."

"And my fate is…?"

"Need I spell it out?" Peter said saucily.

Indeed he did not. "Miss Jones compared herself to a burrow."

Peter's eyes rose quickly. "Do elaborate."

"A haven for the persecuted fox," he explained, "who is being hunted for an offer of marriage."

"Ah, it is clear to me now." Peter paused, looked at him silently with a bemused expression on his face. "And I believe she is, in many ways, utterly correct."

Darcy knew what his brother meant, knew that refuge from the other women was not Darcy's only interest. Their evening talking together only strengthened his impression that she was definitely more relaxed in his company, that this most certainly meant she thought of him with warmth and affection.

It was hard for him to believe, but Darcy was actually looking forward to the wedding ball.


	5. In which a wedding occurs.

_Sunday, 12 June_

The afternoon wedding ceremony was subdued and well-attended by both those friends journeyed from afar and local ones. Miss Russell, who was in due course made Mrs Alconbury, looked resplendent in her pristine white muslin gown trimmed with golden ribbon, her hair finely coiffed and upon which rested a fine white cap trimmed with lace, and long gloves sheathing her slender arms. It was not the new Mrs Alconbury to whom Darcy's eyes returned again and again; that honour fell to the honey-haired lady by her side, dressed (as was the bride's sister) in a similar style of dress, gloves and cap in a shade of blue so light it almost appeared white. Afterwards they returned to the Alconburys' home for a light meal before breaking up for a nap; it would not do, after all, for the ladies not to be well-rested for the evening's activities.

Darcy looked very much forward to seeing what the evening would bring.

He dressed in the finest clothing he had brought specifically for the ball. His jacket and breeches were black; his waistcoat, deep green. Gillies achieved perfection with his cravat. All in all he was very pleased with his appearance.

As the hour of eight approached, he joined his mother in her quarters; they and his brother had decided in advance to arrive to the ball together, but Peter had yet to arrive. "Oh, Mark," said Lady Darcy, "you look so very handsome."

"Thank you, Mother," he said. Taking in her appearance, he noted that it was the first time since his father's passing that she was wearing more than just black and greys; instead she wore a deep green gown that very closely matched his waistcoat. "You look radiant."

"As radiant as I can look at my age, I suppose, but I thank you," she said with a smile. "It is a lovely gown, though."

A quiet rap on the door signalled the arrival of Captain Darcy, whose esteemed status with the Royal Navy was all too evident; he was clad in his naval dress regalia, boots, hat, and even his sheathed sword. "My dear brother," said Darcy, "you do rather cut an impressive figure in that kit."

"Striking," agreed their mother.

"The ladies will forget my existence at long last," said Darcy, which caused Peter to chuckle.

"I thank you both," Peter said, removing his hat and bowing slightly but gallantly; Darcy detected the hint of embarrassment in his voice. "And if it is not too early to be considered unfashionably prompt, I believe we should adjourn to the ball."

They descended the stairs then, with Lady Darcy claiming each son by the elbow, proceeded through the foyer to the ballroom, the sound of indistinct chatter growing louder with each step forward. Instantly they were descended upon by friends and acquaintances, and Lady Alconbury was busy ensuring those who had not previously been introduced were. The bride and groom were also busily attending their guests, making sure they were having a nice time. In due time they found Darcy and his family. Darcy still did not see the Joneses, and not for a lack of trying.

"Oh, but it will get take some getting used to, being called 'Mrs Alconbury'," said the bride, "and I believe I shall still be answering to my sister's new appellation for some time to come."

"The two of you look so very happy," said Lady Darcy, clasping the new Mrs Alconbury's hands affectionately. "The words given by the vicar were quite moving."

"Yes, he has always been a quite eloquent speaker," said Alconbury.

They went on with this subject for a few minutes more, but Darcy had again taken to scanning the growing crowd in the ballroom for Miss Jones. Since the bride and the bride's sister were no longer wearing their dresses from the ceremony but rather more formal, proper ball gowns, logically it followed that Miss Jones would likely be in a ball gown of her own.

When Darcy saw her mother, father and brother arriving, his heart leapt up into his throat, his eyes momentarily darting about in the hopes he could see her sooner. He chastised himself for betraying his feelings in such away just as he realised it was the three of them alone who had arrived.

Darcy's attention was abruptly reeled back to his group courtesy of his brother's gentle elbow connecting against his side. He looked to Peter, who was looking to Alconbury, the new groom. He knew what this had meant in the past. This was a cue that he had been spoken to directly and that Alconbury was expecting his participation. "Forgive me," said Darcy. "I did not quite hear what you said."

"I was just asking about the hunt planned for Tuesday," Alconbury said, apparently not offended by Darcy's lack of attention. "I presume you will be partaking."

"Indeed," he said, though he could not help thinking of Miss Jones and the baby fox she had freed from the trap. "Very much looking forward to it. I am sure you will be missed."

Alconbury grinned. "And I am sure I will be much happier with my then-present endeavour, and not missing the hunt at all."

At this Peter chuckled and Darcy smiled, but at that moment his eyes returned to the door in the course of skimming the room once more, and all consciousness of his present company was forgotten. This time it so happened to be just as the object of his search arrived.

Miss Jones was resplendent in a silk gown of the palest pearly pink he had never seen. The sleeves were short and slightly puffed around her shoulders, the neckline was generous and at the front were a small spray of pink flowers; her gloves were long and of the same colour and fabric. Her hair was swept up; as she turned her he could see that it had been braided then twisted around, and in her hair were more of those lovely little flowers. The only other adornment was a delicate strand of pearls around her throat; she did not need more. It might have been traitorous to think, but he thought she looked more beautiful than the bride.

Her eyes met his and she smiled. He hoped he did not look like a pup begging for attention from its master, and willed his features to be neutral. She bent to the side and it was only then that he noticed she was on the arm of another man, Mr Russell, the bride's brother. He was himself grinning in a rather pleased fashion; his clothing, like other instances in which Darcy had seen the man, was very fine but quite, for a lack of a better term, ostentatious. Darcy thought he had every right to look as smug as he did, bearing the loveliest woman in the room.

"Bridget, you are looking very well." This from his mother, who broke away from her sons' arms to give Miss Jones a quick but affectionate embrace. "That gown is quite fetching on you."

"Thank you, Ma'am," she said, "and how good it is to see you in such a lovely colour. It brings out the sparkle in your eyes." She looked to Darcy. "Lord Darcy," she said, still smiling, dropping a little curtsey, probably out of habit. "You remember Tom. I mean, Mr Russell."

Darcy bowed cordially, realising only then that the new bride and groom must have made their excuses to continue to greet their guests, as they were no longer part of the group. "Of course. Good to see you once more."

"Likewise," Russell said, and it seemed genuine.

"And Captain Darcy," she said, her blue eyes shifting to his brother, "you are a veritable walking patriotic inspiration in that kit."

"I thank you, Miss Jones," he said, bowing.

"If you will pardon me," said Lady Darcy, "I see Lady Alconbury beckoning me her way. I suspect she wants to introduce me to the lady beside her." In a confidential tone she added, "I hope it is not the boor about whom she spoke at length yesterday." The men bid her goodbye with a curt nod.

Peter knew that his brother favoured Miss Jones above all others, so Darcy wondered if Peter might find an excuse to take his leave, though he thought it might be more difficult to get Russell to depart from the woman to whom he was acting escort. It turned out to be Russell, however, who spoke up first about leaving. "Oh, but Jude looks divine. I hope you will pardon me, Bridget, Lord Darcy? I have not yet seen her since the ceremony."

Darcy could not help but notice the over-familiarity with which Russell addressed Miss Jones. Had he somehow missed the signs that Miss Jones and Russell were more than just childhood friends? Darcy's eyes followed Russell's to where the couple were speaking with Miss Russell, and for a horrible moment he thought Miss Jones might go with him to her fair-haired friend. "I will go with you," spoke up Peter. "I should like to see if Miss Russell would like the first dance of the evening."

Russell said, "I am thankful to have already secured my own." He leaned and kissed Miss Jones' cheek before adding, "I will see you then."

They sauntered off together in the direction of Russell's sibling. Darcy was going to wait a moment before addressing Miss Jones, but she chose to speak first. "You are very quiet, sir," she said in a playful tone. "Are you planning tactical manoeuvres towards the perimeter in order to better observe the crowd?"

A light laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "I was not," he said. "I was just looking for the words to express how lovely you look tonight, and finding myself at a loss."

He saw a flood of pink stain her cheeks. "Thank you," she said, doing another little curtsey.

"I was also contemplating the first dance of the evening, but it appears that you have already been claimed," he said.

"I have," she said. 

"A shame," he said. "Now I shall have to secure… perhaps Miss Alconbury, which I am afraid will give her wholly the wrong idea."

He saw her brow wrinkle for but a moment. "Well, I shall be happy to promise you another," she said. 

"It would be my honour."

The first dance came sooner rather than later, and Miss Jones accompanied Russell to the dance floor. Darcy decided that, instead of asking a lady whose company he did not desire and cruelly giving her false hopes, he chose instead not to dance at all. He was sure this omission was noted by the mothers present who wished his attention on their daughters, but he did not really care. He found a place near the window (thinking inevitably of Miss Jones' comment, which amused him) to enjoy the music and watch the dancing, particularly that of Miss Jones. She was not as precise in her footwork as some of the other ladies, but she was very clearly diverted, which to his eyes was much more pleasing than the stone-faced ladies more concerned with going through the motions. The sight of her bouncing through the faster-paced numbers was equally pleasing.

He glanced away. It would not do to look at her with such attention, particularly when the sight of her body was having unwanted effects on him. He searched for something else to fix his gaze to, and it landed on his brother, who to Darcy's great pleasure had been dancing every time he had chanced to see him. Peter's hat and scabbard had been set aside; he danced nearly every dance, and clearly enjoyed the company of every lady who had accepted his request, and for their part, they clearly enjoyed his.

He then saw his brother asked Miss Jones for a dance, and she accepted with a smile. As he watched them move through the latest of the numbers, he heard voices pass him by, murmuring in hushed tones as if in scandal, that there would be waltzing before the night was through. He knew the dance was new to England; he had, during the past season in London, had an opportunity to waltz at a ball in London, so not only was he familiar with it, but familiar with the fact that it paired couples dancing together one on one, rather than the usual line dances so common to balls. 

Upon the close of this number Peter escorted Miss Jones towards where Darcy was standing. He bowed his head at their approach. "Miss Jones, Captain Darcy," he said in greeting. "You have been quite thoroughly engaged, brother."

"And you have not," said Peter. "Miss Jones advises she promised you a dance, and you have not yet asked for one."

"He has been too busy assessing the crowd," she said with a wink. 

He chuckled. "Perhaps the next," he said, holding out his hand. With a smile she nodded and accepted it.

"I believe supper is to be served after this dance," she said with mirth in her voice as they began to walk, "so it is very good timing on your part."

He swore his heart skipped a beat. It was customary for the gentleman to take the lady with whom he had been dancing to supper. He hoped that Russell would not take offence that he would be escorting her thus. When the first strains of music began and pleased murmurs filled the air, he realised it was the aforementioned rumoured waltz that he was about to dance with her. _Very good timing indeed_ , he thought. 

She smiled; clearly she too recognised upon what they were about to embark together. He held up his left hand to accept her right; he felt her hand on his shoulder as he put an arm around her waist. Doing so flooded him with happiness. With the proper starting position achieved, they and the rest of the dancers stepped forward in unison. He and Miss Jones glided and turned together through the slightly staccato motion of the waltz rather gracefully. Darcy felt incredibly lucky to have this particular dance with her, though he noticed quite a few shocked expressions at the sight of them.

The dance seemed to last but a moment yet at the same time was a blissful eternity. To have his arm around her waist, to have her so near… he wished to dance every dance for the rest of the evening with her. He knew though that this would not be wise, but at least he would have the pleasure of her company through dinner. After they ate, as they approached the ballroom again, he could request a second dance, confirming his preference for her.

The music ceased. Applause went up around them as he reluctantly stepped back from her and bowed at the waist, then extended his elbow towards her. He was pleased to see that his brother was escorting Miss Russell, though he had a rather grave look upon his face.

"Mark," he said quietly. "I am just told that Miss Jones has not yet been presented and debuted."

He blinked, unsure what this meant, until he remembered that debutantes and debutantes alone were allowed permission by the patronesses at Almack's to do the newly respectable waltz. The surprised expressions of the others suddenly made sense. "I did not know," he said, feeling stunned at the thought that he had been party to something so improper, looking down to the lady on his arm. She seemed unperturbed; in fact, she looked impish. "Miss Jones, were you aware of the restriction?"

"I did not think it much mattered," she said. "I do not see why I should be denied the pleasure of such a marvellous dance because some silly old lady who is not even aware of my existence has not told me I could."

"Bridget," said Miss Russell, her dark brown eyes widening. 

"If anyone asks, I will make it known you thought she had debuted," Peter said. "I think if we do not make a fuss about it, no one else should, either."

With Miss Russell on Peter's arm, they walked away towards where the supper comprising likely of soup, biscuits, tea and other delights was being served. Darcy suggested without words that they should move forward too towards the meal, but he could not stop his thoughts from turning regarding the potential for scandal the dance might have. 

"I am sorry," said Miss Jones quietly. "I do not care about silly social restraints for myself, but I should have considered how my disregard might reflect upon you."

"You should very much care for yourself, Miss Jones," he snapped, then closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "I apologise for the harsh tone," he added. "But I am more concerned for _you_ in this instance."

She was quiet again, and he thought he might have upset her until she said, "It was greatly enjoyable, though."

He agreed; however he aggressively suppressed a smile, which in all likelihood made him look even more severe. They arrived to the room in which dinner was waiting. As they perused the food and beverages, he chose for her without objection. Upon retreating to a table with servings of soup, bread and negus, she asked in a very low tone, "Sir, have I angered you?"

He looked to her and at once any irritation towards her for a breach of etiquette melted away like ice on a sunny winter morn. "You have not," he said, then offered her a smile. "At least not in any permanent way. I am sure the repercussions of dancing a waltz are much more greatly exaggerated in my mind, and I am equally sure that all present know we did nothing truly improper."

She smiled, looking appeased. "I thought perhaps you had chosen this crumbling bread to spite me," she said, obviously teasing.

He allowed a laugh this time. "I did not wish to cause damage to you in any way."

"I think it is safe to assume you have not."

They ate and they talked; conversation moved quite naturally (and without his noticing) to the matter of his life in London. She asked him many questions, and he found himself quite willing to go into great, honest detail with her about his life: schooling at Cambridge, dividing time between Grafton Underwood and London, and the sudden elevation to the master of the estate at his father's sudden passing. For her part, she listened intently, and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, though when he spoke about serving in the House of Lords, she voiced the opinion that parliamentary procedure sounded dull as ditchwater.

"A room full of gentlemen arguing about this per cent and that," she said, having a sip of negus. "Perhaps it is just as well I am not a man, because I do not think I could tolerate it."

He chuckled. "I am sure your opinions would shake things up a bit."

"It is silly to argue about everything, when you stop to consider," she went on, "because how can anyone be sure they have the right opinion with all of the opinions existing in the world?"

"I beg your pardon," came another voice, "but there are some opinions that are correct and right, particularly concerning social conventions."

Darcy turned slightly to see Miss Enderby sitting at a nearby table, her nose raised into the air haughtily and looking quite smug. Before Darcy could defend his companion's honour, his companion defended herself.

"Social conventions are artificial and changeable," she said, "and are therefore no more right or wrong than any other opinion. They just happen to be more widely agreed upon."

Miss Enderby's colour flared. "Some bluestocking females have too many opinions for a proper lady."

"Well," said Miss Jones coolly, "that's _your_ opinion." She turned her attention forward again, picked up her drink and took another sip. "This is very good," she said to him. The smile lurking at the corner of her mouth told of her satisfaction in verbally besting Miss Enderby. Darcy, for his part, was overcome with thoughts of a revelatory nature: he had come to the ball with a mind to secure himself a bride who only was possessed of some necessary prerequisites… and had ended up courting a lady who probably had none of them. And that he had had to court at all was a secondary revelation; his position and title alone should have been enough, he thought, to grant him the consent of any lady he chose.

As if accompaniment to his thoughts, Darcy heard the orchestra warming up. He thought it best to remove Miss Jones from the dining room and away from potential retaliatory unpleasantness.

"Shall we return to the ballroom?" he asked, rising to his feet, offering his hand to assist her.

"Yes, thank you," she said, taking his hand then his proffered elbow.

When they arrived he led her towards where the dancers were assembling. She stopped walking, and when she did he turned to look at her. "Is something wrong?" he asked quietly as she disengaged her hand from his elbow.

"I… I am confused, sir," she said, looking quite pale.

"What about?"

"I was under the impression you were only asking to escort me back to the room."

He had assumed his intentions were clear. "Do you not wish to dance with me again?" he asked, searching her eyes with his.

"I…" she began, blinking rapidly before looking down and away from him. As she spoke again, her voice was troubled. "Sir, I cannot." She raised her eyes again; he was surprised to see them welling with tears. Before he could say another word she turned and walked briskly away from him and out of the room, leaving him behind in complete bafflement.

In the moment it took for him to debate whether to pursue her to determine what had caused such a turnaround in attitude, he felt a hand touching his elbow. He turned and saw Jamie Jones standing there, looking quite serious. 

"Mark," he said, leaning heavily on their boyhood friendship, "I witnessed what just transpired, and I believe you deserve an explanation. May we talk in private?"

Darcy nodded, and allowed himself to be led away to the library. Seeing it again only served to remind him where he had first seen Miss Jones. His friend closed the door then turned to him. "I am sorry for inadvertently overhearing just then," he said.

Darcy replied, "It was not a conversation in a private room, so there is no need for an apology. An explanation, however, would be most appreciated. What _did_ happen just then?"

Jamie cast his eyes to the spines of the books nearby as he considered his words. He began, letting out a long breath. "I am somewhat in shock myself. I thought she would have seen your superiority of character."

"You do not make sense."

Jones met his eye. "The silly girl considers herself engaged."

"What?" he asked, his voice sharp.

"Do not misunderstand. She is not," he said in an equally brusque voice before he sighed; its tone regained its normalcy. "The signs between you and she, they all seemed so promising to me. But now I know her initial impressions have in fact not changed."

"And those were what?"

"She was already aware even before our arrival to Norfolk of the intentions of our mother and your own, and it was why she was so distant at first. She knew she had acted improperly in your public meetings, had voiced upon our earliest encounters that she believed she could not be a suitable wife for you. There was also the billiards and the baby fox, further reinforcing her beliefs. But I know she was aware that the attention you paid to her was unprecedented through direct observation and from what your mother confided in her; in jest I told her myself that it is nigh on impossible to get you to smile under the best of circumstances…" He chuckled mirthlessly. "I thought she understood, thought the friendship you and she were building, meant her opinion, her heart had turned, else I never would have encouraged you further. However… I must have misjudged. She must have found the sparring you and she engaged in akin to what she and I engage in as siblings, more so than I thought. Must have considered you and Peter more like additional elder brothers, must have believed your affections lay along a more sisterly line. After all, she had confided to me what you had said about feeling pursued as if a fox—and that she was glad to give you leave to smile, that she might not have smiled either under such aggressive pursuit." He sighed. "I also did not consider that my sister is not used to being courted in a gentlemanly manner. Clearly your request for a second dance was a bit of a shock to her, that she truly had no sense that your feelings went as deeply as they did."

"And what of this other man, the one she considers as if a fiancé?" Darcy asked. "Is he that objectionable?"

"He is not. However, a marriage with him would be unsuitable," he said.

Darcy immediately thought of Miss Jones' escort into the ball. "It is not Russell, is it?"

To his surprise, Jones laughed. "Old Tom? Be serious. I believe he would be more interested in _you_ than in a girl he considers a sister." His demeanour went serious again. "It all began in the spring. This fellow arrived in town ostensibly to visit a friend. He was someone I had known from Cambridge, someone I liked though he had rather a reputation with women. He had something of a misguided moral compass, and found great challenge in pursuing and seducing ladies, even those from good families, if the lady was willing… and they usually were." 

Darcy had unfortunately known many such men of supposed high standing in his time at Cambridge; he thought of the lady for whom one such man had succeeded in seducing. "How did this man and your sister chance even to meet?" he asked, his anger building to think this man had again ruined such a fine lady. "How is this man even still breathing? I would have challenged him to a duel immediately upon learning."

Jamie unexpectedly chuckled. "He did not succeed in seducing my sister. They met at the assembly hall. I was witness to their conversation and interactions that night, kept her near to me so I could intervene if I needed to. It could not be said he did not try in earnest to weave his web of seduction around her. I believe in response to his tired old lines—something plucked from a bad novel—she actually laughed at him."

Darcy felt much relieved to hear it.

"He was not to be deterred though, and more than just by the need to succeed in his pursuit of her. He admitted to me that he found her fresh beauty quite charming. He visited quite often, more than we cared to see him, but had dropped the act, spoke to her and with her with frankness and humour; once he did, she too became charmed by him."

Darcy felt himself mesmerised by the tale despite everything.

"To everyone's surprise, by the end of May, this man made my father an offer for my sister's hand—and the bigger surprise was that she wanted to marry him too. You can imagine, in getting to know my sister again as you have over this time here in Norfolk, how well she took our father's refusal, and since she is not yet of majority she requires his blessing. She did not speak to our father for days afterwards. For someone who is not normally resentful it was worrisome, but the fact that all did return to normal comforted me that she was healing."

Darcy did not realise he was holding in a breath until he released it. Of course Mr Jones had refused. How could he himself have been encouraged on by her brother if he had?

Jamie went on. "Now, do not mistake my meaning. I am sure the man honestly believes himself in love; however, I cannot believe a man's character and ingrained habits can change so drastically in so short a time. If it comes to pass that he tires of her once he has wed her, it will break my sister into a million pieces. She is not the sort of lady who can be happy only with material comforts—a big house, fine clothing, rare gems on her jewellery—if she has no love in her life." Jones smiled wanly. "My sister is bright, but she has been kept too long in the country, and does not have the experience of the ladies in town. This man too asked her to dance a second time, and more, and she did not know the significance until scolded quite thoroughly by our mother that he was showing not only her but everyone present his preference for her above all other ladies." He paused once more. "Yes, she lacked the necessary experience, while he, on the contrary, had more than most. It was inevitable he should win her affection, even if it meant shedding his usual mask to do it. But neither our father nor I would allow such a wedding to take place, as sure as we are that this gentleman's feelings are bound to change once he tires of the novelty my sister represents. She might be ready to fall in love, may believe herself to be in love, but our father loves her so much he would gladly postpone any thoughts of marriage well beyond her thirtieth year if he believed her intended did not truly love her."

The room filled with the sudden silence, and neither man spoke for many moments.

"You can see why my family was not eager to divulge such detail about her situation. If you assumed this man had succeeded in bringing about my sister's ruin, surely others would have as well." He stopped, clearing his throat. "Assuming, of course, that you believe I speak in truth. Has your opinion of my sister altered at all?"

After a minute or two of thought, Darcy returned with, "Do you believe that I would have a chance to win her truly with patient love and constant attention? Surely she would come to see the stark difference between real love and the orchestrations of a cad."

Jamie Jones looked too stunned to speak. Darcy was, in his own way, equally stunned; it was only then he realised his feelings could honestly be phrased in terms of love, not until he said them aloud and knew them to be true. Despite her having feelings for a man to whom she considered herself engaged, he admired Miss Jones' loyalty towards him; instead of casting him aside as soon as a rich and titled man showed interest in her, she had remained true. He could not say the same for other women he had met, whose eyes shone with avarice, whose interest increased only upon learning who he was. It was a testament to her character. It made him love her more.

"Mark," said Jones, clapping his friend on the shoulder, "I believe that you would, and I encourage you to take that chance." He smiled. "I will go and see to my sister. Do not worry yourself. I am sure she will be fine."

"I trust you will tell her I did not mean to offend."

He nodded. "Do not worry," he said again. With that the two men departed the library, one destined for the stairs and the other for the ballroom. Darcy did not wish to return to the ball; he really wanted to be far away from other people as possible. However, he had his mother to consider; ostensibly he had accompanied her to Norfolk to attend to her. So return he did. Upon reappearing in the room he went to find her and despite her look of confusion he stayed by her side for the remainder of the night. Even his brother shot him questioning looks, but Darcy said nothing. He did not dance again, and when his mother retreated, he went with her.

It was later in his own room that Peter approached him at last. "I was hoping you might explain what happened tonight," he said. 

Darcy sat down heavily in a chair. "Where exactly shall I begin?"

"Well, the waltz for starters," he said. "It was your duty to accompany her to dinner, but you must have been furious with her for not telling you she had no permission to do so. Was that what sent her running from the ballroom afterwards?"

"No, I was not furious with her. I mean, I was upset that she had not informed me as such, but we had suitably resolved that, and had a very nice time talking over dinner." Darcy loosened his cravat. "The event that sent her running from the ballroom was my fault, though I did not see any harm in it at the time." At Peter's shocked look, he explained, "I asked her for a second dance."

"This does not come as a surprise to me," said Peter with a wry grin.

"It apparently came as one to her. I spoke with her brother who explained…" He paused. He had not been given leave to disclose the details regarding the man to whom Miss Jones considered herself engaged. "…that she was not expecting my affection to be so strong as to request a second dance with her. It startled her and she ran off. Her brother said he would tend to her."

Peter ran his hand over his face. "I am starting to think the sea not quite so rough as this," he joked, then looked to his brother and narrowed his eyes a little. "She seemed terribly upset, though; much more upset than a girl who had just been favoured over all others for a second dance should have been. In fact, I suspect most other girls would have been climbing over each other for such attention."

"There is more to the story," he confided, "but I cannot share it."

"I understand," said Peter. "Cannot go telling tales of secret engagements and so on."

His words were clearly in jest, but were so close to the truth that Darcy felt his face drain of all colour. Peter blinked in disbelief.

"It is not a true engagement," confessed Darcy. "But her hand has been asked for."

"And he has been refused."

"By her father, yes." He tensed his jaw. "I beg you not to say a word."

"I am the soul of discretion, dear brother."

Darcy said no more; he knew he could rely on his brother to hold this confidence. As he prepared for bed, he hoped he would see Miss Jones the next day. He would not nor never would be persuaded to withdraw his affection for and solicitation towards her.


	6. In which a scheme is brought to light.

_Monday, 13 June_

The next morning, not unexpectedly, was a late one for everyone except for the bride and groom, who departed for Bath just after seven and expected none of the guests to see them off. Darcy himself slept until late morning, dreaming of verdant fields and blue skies, but not those of Norfolk; rather, Grafton Underwood, and in this dream, just ahead of him as he walked was Miss Jones, though despite his repeating her name she did not pay him heed. Upon awakening he called for something to eat and a strong cup of coffee.

As he ate his brother joined him, taking a piece of bread from Darcy's plate as he took a seat opposite him. "Feeling well today?"

"Very well. Why should I feel otherwise?" said Darcy. "It was not as if I drank myself into a stupor."

"Not awake half the night pining for Miss Jones?" he teased with a wink.

"Not," Darcy said curtly, taking a bite of his own bread; it was not a lie, as he had slept quite well despite his dreams being somewhat maddening. After washing it down with some coffee, he asked, "What plans have you made for today?"

"For us," he said, "I have arranged horses for a ride."

Darcy's mood brightened considerably. He had not been riding since the day of his arrival to Grafton Underwood and he missed it immensely. "Let me finish, then I shall only need to get my hat and jacket."

Once fully dressed they went down and out of the house in the direction of the stable. As they passed through the garden and approached the gazebo, however, he noticed it was occupied. It did not take Darcy long to realise who the occupants were. One was Jamie Jones, sitting on a bench under cover of the roof, quite possibly dozing as he rested back against the post; he made no move as the men came nearer. The other was Miss Jones, who paced restlessly on the grass, her pale yellow dress swirling about her ankles, the matching bonnet shielding her eyes. When she spotted Darcy and his brother, she froze in place and curtseyed as if terrified not to.

"Good morning, Miss Jones," said Darcy, his voice clear and steady as he bent slightly in cordial greeting. "How are you?"

"Very well, sir, thank you," she said. "And you?"

"Quite well myself," he said. "It is a beautiful morning." 

"Indeed it is. Jamie and I were just out for a walk and stopped to rest."

At the sound of voices Jamie had stirred, and was now watching the three of them, offering a smile when Darcy looked in his direction.

"My brother and I were just going to the stables," offered Peter.

Darcy saw a momentary light of interest in her eyes. Surely she recalled their discussion of horse riding. "Are you going for a ride?"

"We are," said Darcy. "Would you like to join us?"

At this query, she gifted him with a warm, almost relieved smile. "I would be very pleased indeed. Oh." She turned to her brother. "Did you want to ride?"

"I think it is a fine idea," he said. "Do you think…" he began, then paused; he looked a little worried, sounded conflicted, but in a moment continued. "…your dress is suitable for riding?"

"This is my best walking dress," said Miss Jones. "Since we were out walking."

This prompted a chuckle from all three gentlemen. "Well. Let us be on our way."

As they walked, Darcy found that his brother and hers had sped up, allowing the two of them a little distance and privacy. "I had almost forgotten about riding," said Miss Jones. "I am pleased that you encountered us when you did. I was feeling a bit restless and this just sounds delightful."

He smiled. "I recall something about your having a natural seat," he said. "When did you last ride?"

"Well…" It was several steps forward before she answered. "Ten years ago."

Darcy could not suppress a chuckle. "Ten _years_ …?"

"I went riding without permission with my brother. I fell off, obviously alerting my father and mother, and was forbidden to ride again until I returned home from school, and then I never got the chance again, strangely enough," she confessed. Darcy thought that the lack of further riding was no accident. "Jamie gave me instruction on how to properly ride, though, so it will be fine." She smiled brightly and confidently. "It looks so easy, I cannot imagine it is not."

Darcy saw with the clarity of hindsight from where Jamie's hesitation had stemmed, and felt a slight panic well inside of him. As they arrived to the stable, he met Jamie's gaze and nodded slightly, letting him know that he understood the man's trepidation.

Darcy could not decide if it was a blessing or a curse that the stable had an available side saddle, one that Lady Alconbury used on her infrequent rides. Once the horse was saddled for her—a placid-tempered old mare, the gentlemen were assured—Miss Jones giddily approached her, stroking her on the muzzle. "She is lovely," said Miss Jones, then turned to face her brother. "Help me up?"

"Allow me," said the groom, a young but sturdy-looking boy, who knelt and held his hand out, offering his knee for her to step on and lift herself up onto the saddle.

"Of course, thank you," she said. She stepped up and launched herself onto the saddle with, unfortunately, a bit too much force. Darcy, standing on the other side of the mare, was able to react and prevent her from falling off altogether.

As he did, he blurted, "Bridget!" just as she said, 

"Oh!"

One hand met the small of her back, the other, her arm. The sudden impact sent his hat to the dusty ground but he was more concerned in not allowing her to land in an unceremonious (and potentially immodest) heap on the ground.

"Forgive me, Miss Jones," he said abruptly, helping to set her upright her on the saddle. Peter swept Darcy's hat up from the dirt, brushed it off with his hand, and held it out for him to take. 

"Forgive me my enthusiasm, sir," she said, her skin going crimson.

She got settled and took the reins as her brother chided, "Try not to race off and take those stone walls, sister, while we mount." This garnered him narrowed eyes but the trace of a smile, and Darcy knew the only true damage done was to her pride.

Within a few minutes more the four of them were off on a gentle trot. The sun and the breeze was quite amenable to their excursion; the three gentleman seemed to forge an unspoken pact with one another to watch over her, although she hardly needed it. Aside from making mistakes that showed her to be the novice that she was—among them the miscues of the position of her body and the pressure of her leg against the mare's side—she handled herself well, and she corrected her behaviour after observing the gentlemen present as well as through trial and error.

"Perhaps you can join us on the hunt tomorrow," joked Darcy as he sidled up beside her. Her head swivelled to look at him, but instead of looking amused, she looked slightly disconcerted, even upset. He wondered if his slip in calling her by her given name had affronted her, but he could not even be sure she had heard it. "Miss Jones, if I have offended you in any way by the liberties I have taken, know that I am heartily sorry."

She looked away and down, as if to focus on her reins. "I am not offended," she said, "and even if I were, you saved me a great deal of possible embarrassment, so I would have no choice but to put it in the past." She looked to him again and this time, her expression was all kindness and pleasantry. "I am enjoying the ride very much. Thank you very much for inviting me."

He smiled in return. "It has been my pleasure." He faced forward and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. He too was enjoying the ride very much, and he was also enjoying the fact that he did not feel the need to talk with her at all. They rode in companionable, comfortable silence as they did a circuit of the garden and the fields beyond. When they began a speedier trot, she urged her horse to do the same, and as they ran over the lush meadow he could hear her laughter carry through the air as clear as a bell.

When it came time to return to the stable, however, it became very clear very quickly that her gentle old mare was enjoying stretching her legs a little too much; she did not heed the command to stop. It took Darcy flanking the mare and matching her speed, then reaching over and tugging the rein harder than Miss Jones had done, to get the mare to break out of her jaunt. As the mare slowed to a leisurely pace, Miss Jones laughed and tried to affect a calm demeanour, but it was clear she was a bit shaken.

"You did pretty well for someone riding for essentially the first time," said her brother with a grin as he dismounted.

"I prefer to take your meaning as a compliment rather than a tease," said Miss Jones, whose brother then went to her to offered his assistance to her. She got down with far more grace than she had exhibited getting up, and seemingly blushed at the very memory of the latter. She turned her eyes to Peter. "I had meant to stay in my room all day and rest," she said, then looked to Darcy. "I am glad I had a change of heart."

"As are we," said Peter, bowing slightly. "I am not sure how you feel, but I am in need of refreshment. What say you?"

They all agreed, particularly as the temperature seemed much warmer than when they had set out for the ride. When they arrived to the house Peter located a maid to request a tray of beverages for the drawing room. The girl nodded then headed for the kitchen, while the four of them retreated to the coolness of that room. The maid returned with a pitcher of water and four drinking glasses, and they sat in comfortable conversation while they drank it. Darcy noticed, however, that Miss Jones was quieter than had known her to be and she looked distracted. He hoped it had nothing to do with the incident in the stable.

As they rose to return to their respective rooms, Darcy asked her quietly, "Miss Jones, are you well?"

"Yes, quite," she said, though the tone of her voice was not wholly convincing.

"And you are sure I have no further need to make amends?"

She offered a heartfelt smile. "Very sure," she said. Her expression turned wistful, like she might say something more, but she did not. 

"I will see you at dinner, then," he said. She nodded then, with her brother, went on her way.

Darcy did see her at dinner; in fact, he once again escorted her to the dining room as he had previously. There were, however, no jokes about Napoleon's spies or rampant bears, no witty _sotto voce_ observations about the evening; she seemed still to be in a rather introspective state, and Darcy swore that more than once he saw her eyes turn glossy as if overcome with sadness. Darcy could not imagine why this should be so.

This rumination persisted throughout dinner and beyond, and in fact prevented Darcy from falling to sleep as quickly as he should have given the early hour he was due to rise for the hunt. When the knock rang out on his door advising him it was time to prepare for that activity, he realised that he had dreamed again of Miss Jones, that she was in need of assistance and he could not reach her, this time on a runaway horse (not surprising given the day prior). 

After dressing, he ate a breakfast of coffee and bread brought up to him; as if he were himself a scent hound his brother appeared and they partook of the meal together amidst discussions of the fine state of the weather for the hunt. Upon finishing he gathered up what he needed to ride—the hunt was to be informal to the extreme, as most participants did not have any reason to think a hunt cap would be necessary to bring to a June wedding—and, along with his brother, made for the door.

Upon entering the hall, Darcy noticed that Mr Jones and Jamie Jones were emerging from their own room farther down the hall. They looked happy and their spirits seemed bright, but that was not what attracted Darcy's attention, which was focused on the third person appearing through the door: Miss Jones, looking as if she was up and possibly ready to join them for the hunt in order to prevent the foxes being hunted. It would not have surprised him if she had tried to insist, but he realised that was a foolish thing to think, particularly as he watched her put her arms around both brother and father in turn, giving each of them very tight hugs to say goodbye. What surprised him was the emotional, almost devastated expression on her face, gone in a flash when she reared back to talk to them.

"Good luck," she said sweetly. As she said it, she then noticed the Darcy brothers. "And to you as well," she added, "though in all honesty I am secretly rooting for the fox."

Peter chuckled and Darcy nodded, though he was still troubled. He did not believe that her unwarranted feelings of tenderness for the foxes was the cause of her sombreness. After her father and brother left, she stayed just inside the room, but did not close the door all the way. With a reserved smile, she said, looking directly to Peter, then Darcy, "I am really grateful for your numerous kindnesses, as undeserved as they have been."

This elicited a little chuckle from Peter.

"Undeserved? Nonsense," said Darcy. 

She only maintained that reserved smile. "Goodbye, Lord Darcy," she said, then paused before looking away from Darcy to his brother. "Captain Darcy." She then withdrew into the room. 

"Wonder what could be the matter with your Bridget?" said Peter mockingly, though not loud enough for anyone to hear but Darcy.

Darcy was too preoccupied with the same question at first to notice the inappropriateness of his using her given name. "Watch yourself, brother," he said. "As you know, she is not 'my' anything."

"My apologies," he said with an exaggerated bow. "We should go down to where they are gathering for the hunt."

Darcy agreed and together he and his brother descended to the first floor and then out of doors. He bowed his head in response to the greetings of the others, but what caught his attention was Mr Jones speaking to Sir Geoffrey with his son Jamie nearby.

"It really was the most curious thing," said Mr Jones. "My daughter does not usually rise this early, but there she was, up to see us off, and such affection too. She is always an demonstrative girl but this was more so than usual."

"Perhaps she misses her friends," said Sir Geoffrey. "One married and off on her honeymoon, and the other two returned home. Perhaps she is making plans to go and visit them; they are only just down the road a bit, after all."

"Yes, perhaps," said Mr Jones. "Her mother would know of such things."

Jamie nodded, though Darcy noted that he too looked troubled.

"Well, sir, do not worry yourself with such thoughts," said Sir Geoffrey with a bit of bluster. "We have horses for you all saddled and ready to go, foxholes duly covered over by my best men."

As the line of them filed towards the stables to claim their mounts, something indefinable caused Darcy to look back towards the house, and when he did, what he saw surprised him: standing in the window of the upper floor, he saw the distinct form, the blonde hair, of Miss Jones, her bare hand pressed to one of the window panes. The sight of her caused him to momentarily pause; he watched as she turned away. "Something wrong?" asked Peter, who nearly walked directly into him.

"No, I—" He realised that his worry and preoccupation with her well-being would make him a liability rather than an asset on the hunt. He just could not shake the feeling that something was not right. "I have just remembered an urgent letter due to my steward. I think I will have to bow out of the hunt."

Peter looked like he might laugh, as if he thought his brother was speaking in jest, but did not upon seeing the serious expression conveyed on Darcy's face. "It must be urgent if you are withdrawing from a special summer hunt," he said. "I will pass your regrets on to Sir Geoffrey, unless you require my assistance."

"I do not, but thank you. Happy hunting," said Darcy, then turned and made his way back to the house.

The letter was, of course, a fabrication. As he walked his thoughts were racing. He did not know exactly what he was going to do about his unsettled feelings. He could hardly go to her room directly to see her. In order to sort out his thoughts, he decided to go to the library. He perused the shelves, lost in thought for many minutes, his gaze glancing over the spines of the books there. It took him back to that first day in the library where he first met Miss Jones, and he smiled; when his gaze swept over the table, saw the Lord Byron tome where she must have deposited it, he resolved himself to seeing her as soon as possible.

It would be sooner than he thought.

He was brought from his thoughts by what sounded like carriage wheels outside. Furrowing his brows, he set down the book through which he had been idly perusing, and went to the window, which afforded a view of the front gardens. There to his confusion he saw a landau coming to rest close to the house in front of the main door. Moments later, he saw a figure emerge from the house; to his surprise the figure was a female carrying a small satchel. The blonde hair peeking out from beneath the bonnet told him instantly who she was.

Darcy did not have a moment to consider the why of what he was seeing before he was dashing out of the library and to the front door, which was still slightly ajar. He stopped just shy of crossing the threshold when he heard Miss Jones' words.

"I do not think I can do this," she said unsurely; he could just see her standing on the road before the carriage door. "To hurt my family, my father in this way…"

The voice that responded shocked Darcy to the core.

"You are not a child, Bridget," he said. "You can do as you please."

Darcy dared to stick his head a little further out of the door. It was then his worst fears were confirmed. The man emerging from the landau was no one other than a man he had once called 'friend', the man who had sullied the reputation of the lady he had once considered asking to be his wife, Mr Daniel Cleaver of London, his former friend from Cambridge.

Cleaver reached and took her gloved hands, smiling down to her.

"I have it all planned for us," he went on, "but there is a good stretch of road between here and Gretna Green, and we must be away immediately if we are to succeed. The men are all off to the hunt?"

As she nodded, the slow realisation of what he was witnessing solidified for Darcy: they meant to elope in defiance of her father. "Why should we not wait, Daniel?"

Darcy knew exactly why Cleaver would not wait; he wanted to yet again ruin another innocent woman.

"Bridget, I must insist we leave now," Cleaver said with only the thinnest of humours remaining in his voice. The use of her given name incensed Darcy to the core.

"But you need only to prove to him that you are worthy as a son, and then he would surely agree. No one would then be hurt and we could live happily together in the acceptance of all."

"Now," he said again angrily, tugging her towards him by her hands, his loving gesture turning into one of captivity. She struggled to pull away but the man was too strong, and in fact now grasped her wrists.

Darcy had had every intention of intervening and not allowing the coach to leave with them together, but the appearance of such use of force he bolted through the doors and was to her side, freeing her from Cleaver's grasp in an instant.

"That is no way to treat a lady, Cleaver," he said, his voice dark and threatening.

Miss Jones was so startled by his appearance and probably by the direct address of her beloved by name that she stood there in total silence with her mouth dropped slightly open, at least for a few seconds. "Lord Darcy!" she said, her cheeks blazing bright red, holding her arms close to her body. Her bag was now on the ground, forgotten; her voice, soft. "I believed you to be on the hunt."

"I had intended thus," said Darcy, his eyes not leaving Cleaver for a second as he spoke. "Something compelled me to stay."

"I know what you must think of me at this moment, sir, but Daniel and I are in love, and this is my decision."

He looked to Miss Jones at last. "This is not a decision you have a right to make yet."

She looked stunned. 

"How is this any of your business, Darcy?" asked Daniel.

"Miss Jones is my mother's goddaughter," he said authoritatively, "and therefore I feel a certain responsibility towards her."

"You are _not_ my father," she said, her tone indignant as she recovered from her shock, "and you have no right to keep me from going."

" _You_ are not of age," said Darcy, "and the long friendship between our families gives me the right to look after you."

"You have no right of the kind," she said, infuriated. "And there is no such limitation in Scotland."

"In case you did not notice, you are not in Scotland." He drew himself to his full height. "From what I heard you did not seem that keen to be going anyway."

"It was only a momentary hesitation." Though visibly annoyed, she seemed anything but sure, no surer now than earlier.

"Your father and brother are quite right to express reservations regarding a marriage with this man. I would be happy to have your father found, or I could just as easily shout for your mother."

She narrowed her eyes.

He continued. "Go inside and I will see to it that Mr Cleaver leaves. No one else need know of this."

"I will not leave," she said, fire in her voice.

"Then you may hear things that a lady should not have to hear," said Darcy haughtily, "but I will not hold my tongue."

"For heaven's sake, Darcy, spit it out already," said Cleaver in his usual laconic manner, "so we can be off."

"You will leave, Cleaver, and you will leave _alone_ ," he said, his temper hot. "I will not see you ruin yet another young woman."

"I think 'ruin' is a bit strong of a word," Cleaver said.

"I think Miss Cew would beg to differ, but I would wager you have not told Miss Jones about her."

Cleaver's mouth dropped slightly at the mention of the lady to whom Darcy had very nearly made an offer of marriage, but he was careful to keep his features controlled.

"Miss Cew?" asked Miss Jones. "Is this the lady with whom you had to break it off?"

"Yes," Cleaver said. "I was telling you about her, how unsuitable we were together. So you see, Darcy, it is a wager you would have lost." Cleaver looked smug, and reached to take Miss Jones' hand. "Come on, before we are noticed."

Darcy thought back to the tale of engagement told to him by her brother coupled with the timing of another story told in the back rooms of Darcy's gentlemen's club in London, and said, his voice booming, "And what of Lady Westchester?"

At this Cleaver's face went pale white quite against his will. Miss Jones knit her brow in confusion. "I know all about his past, and he has sworn he has changed, so whatever happened before we met has no bearing on our betrothal."

"Are you sure he has changed, Miss Jones? Would my advising you that an affair with Lady Westchester occurred only at the beginning of this month make a difference?"

She looked too shocked to speak, but tore her hand out of Cleaver's as she looked to him. "Daniel, what is the meaning of this? Who is Lady Westchester?"

"She is no one," he said, "and none of Darcy's business." He met Darcy's eye. "I did not think you one to engage in gossip."

"I did not think you one to engage with a married woman after you were already spoken for by Miss Jones," he said, "that is, if you really had changed."

"Daniel?" asked Miss Jones, looking distraught; surely she had noticed the distinct lack of vehement denial. "Is this true?"

"Bridget, it did not mean anything," Cleaver said. "Men have certain needs—"

"Cleaver!" barked Darcy angrily. "You will cease speaking on subjects unsuitable for her ears."

With tears welling in her eyes, she said nothing more, only reached down, picked up her bag, then turned back and into the house.

"You will go," said Darcy. "And if I see you around this house again, see you near Miss Jones again, I will call you out and you will not best me."

"I am not afraid of you," Cleaver said.

"You should be afraid of her father," he said, "because he would surely take any action at his disposal against the man who tried to kidnap his minor daughter."

At this realisation Cleaver stood down and got back into his carriage. Only then did Darcy turn and enter the house too, intent on finding Miss Jones. He doubted that she would have gone back to her room; she would not have risked being seen in such a state by her mother, which would have brought up too many questions.

He then knew where she would have gone for solace: the library. He went there directly and found his instinct had been correct. She stood by the tall windows by which he had himself been standing when he had noticed the arrival of the landau, gazing out onto the drive which was now completely deserted. Beside her bag on the floor was her bonnet, evidently torn off in haste, as were her gloves; her flaxen hair was loose around her shoulders, likely because she had not been able to request the assistance of a maid to help put it up before her departure, and had only tucked it up without pins under the bonnet. She had her arms around herself as she leaned against the wall, and from the way her shoulders shook, she was crying in silence. Even still, she was a vision of loveliness.

"Miss Jones," he said gently, coming near to her. "May I be of assistance?"

"You must think me a fool," she said, her voice breaking. "I cannot bear for you to look for me."

"You are not a fool," he said softly. "You are simply not the first one to be fooled." He reached and placed his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her without being too forward. In reaction, she spun around and threw her arms around him, apparently forgetting all manners and propriety as she let loose with her sobs. Retaining his calm on her behalf, he brought his arms up and gave her the comfort she required, relaxing into her, stroking her hair as one might stroke a small child's.

They stood in this state for many moments. Eventually her sobs became less violent. "Miss Jones," he said quietly, "I swear a solemn oath to you that I will not say anything about what happened earlier."

As if his words triggered her ability to move again, she stepped away, wiping under her eyes. "I appreciate your offer, but I cannot accept it," she said, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "It would not be right not to confess to my father, my family."

He should have guessed she would not want to be anything but open and honest with those she loved so dearly. "If you must, I understand, though you should know you can trust me to keep your confidence," he said. "If you would like, I can keep you company while you await their return, and I would be pleased to be at your side with you when you tell them."

She managed a small smile, then nodded as she sniffed. Darcy reached into his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief, offering it to her. She accepted it gratefully, and brought it to her nose. "Thank you, sir," she said quietly.

"Think nothing of it," he said. "We can stay in here, and you can read while I attend to some correspondence. I will not even mock a choice of Lord Byron if you wish to console yourself with his words."

He thought perhaps he had misspoken at the mention of the romantic poet given what had so recently happened, but she merely smiled wanly again. "I think battleground tactics may be all I am equipped to handle at present, so I am grateful to be in the right place for that."

He smiled then indicated a sofa on which she could make herself comfortable, and she perused the shelves for a suitable tome while he sat at an escritoire and poised an ink-loaded pen over paper. Once again the need to write correspondence had been a fiction, one he was glad to offer just to stay near her and make sure all was well, but she was too clever and would have noticed had he not started to write, so he just began jotting down a letter to the steward as he had said to Peter in the first place. As he wrote he thought of yet more and more to say, and before he knew it he had written quite a complete letter despite himself and had filled three sheets of paper.

Poised to comment on her silence, he looked up and at Miss Jones only to find she had rested her head on her folded elbow and had fallen to sleep. He rose from where he sat, telling himself that he was only going to rescue the book from its perilous position (in danger of sliding unceremoniously to the floor from where it rested half on her lap), and he did so, but caught himself pausing to gaze upon her sleeping form. He did not dare presume anything, but with Cleaver gone away and her fully aware of that man's true nature, he wondered if he should dare hope for a greater chance to win her love.

He wrested himself away and walked back to the desk, chiding himself for thinking selfish thoughts in the wake of the injury to her tender heart. Setting the book down, he picked up his letter and prepared to fold and seal it just as he heard someone at the door.

"Oh! My apologies, Lord Darcy." It was Miss Alison; her voice caused Miss Jones to stir.

"It is quite all right," said Darcy. "I was just writing a letter and Miss Jones was—well, was reading."

"I did not expect to see anyone in here," Miss Alison said with a smile, "least of all a gentleman." Miss Jones rose and fetched her bonnet and gloves and tucked the latter into the former. "There is some food set out in the drawing room for the ladies for luncheon, but I expect they will not mind sharing with you, sir."

"Thank you," said Darcy. "Miss Jones, shall we partake of the luncheon spread?"

"I am not sure I have much of an appetite," she said.

"Are you unwell?" asked Miss Alison solicitously. "Come now, you shall have some tea and biscuits and feel much better for it."

"But my hair is—unkempt." She raised a hand and smoothed it down. "I had… intended to take a walk but my pins came out. Then I decided just to read here." Her eyes darted to where the bag sat on the floor, yet unnoticed by Miss Alison. "If you give me just a few minutes I will join you presently. Lord Darcy, sir, you need not wait for me either."

Darcy suspected he knew precisely what she meant to do: steal away upstairs, put her things where they belonged, and have her maid pin up her hair properly. "Of course, Miss Jones. Come, Miss Alison, walk with me to luncheon so the ladies will not think me uninvited."

Miss Jones looked distinctly grateful when he glanced back to her as he and Miss Alison were leaving. He noticed as he entered the room that his mother was present (sitting with Mrs Jones) and when Lady Darcy saw him she gave him a curious look. 

He went to her an explained, "I excused myself from the hunt due to an overdue letter to the steward." He pulled it from his inside jacket pocket and showed to them. 

"That seems odd," she said, "since we are returning home very soon."

"As I said, overdue."

She seemed to accept the excuse and invited him to sit and eat with them. A quarter of an hour later Miss Jones appeared in the drawing room with her hair brushed and neatly coiffed. No sooner did she enter than her mother called for her. 

"Bridget! Where have you been?"

She seemed to freeze at her mother's words, as if a frightened rabbit caught unawares.

"She was in the library reading while I was writing," supplied Darcy. "She needed to have her maid fix her hair, is that not true?" he asked her directly.

"Yes, yes," she said, then went over to help herself to a plate of food. "In all honesty, I spent more time napping than anything else."

"And she did not bother you, did she?" snapped Mrs Jones.

"No, of course not," he said. "Her company was quite welcome and pleasant."

"As I said, I was sleeping," she said, nibbling on a piece of bread. He smiled at this seeming return to her usual self, even as her cheeks tinted pink.

The afternoon was quite pleasant and he remained with the ladies in the drawing room; all the while he could feel the undercurrent of tension building in him (and, he suspected, in Miss Jones as well) as the moment of her father's and brother's return drew nearer. When that moment arrived, Miss Jones jumped as if pricked by a needle.

"Success!" blustered Sir Geoffrey, leading the group of men.

His wife returned, causing all present to erupt in laughter, "Go and get tidied up and you can tell us all about it over dinner."

Miss Jones looked to Darcy with alarm. Darcy rose to his feet and strode out of the room. "Sir," he said in a low, private tone when he had reached Mr Jones, "when you have finished with your ablutions, I would ask that you and your son join your wife, your daughter and me in the library."

He looked perplexed, and Darcy wondered if the man must have thought he was about to get another request for the hand of his daughter.

Darcy quickly added, "I have only offered to be present."

Mr Jones nodded, then headed upstairs.

When he turned he saw Peter staring at him. "What is going on?" he asked.

"I cannot tell you at present," said Darcy. "I do not know I will be given release to tell you at all."

"So mysterious," said Peter. "I shall change out of these filthy garments and await dinner and possible enlightenment."

Upon returning to the drawing room, he saw Miss Jones looking to him with apprehension. "Mrs Jones, Miss Jones, if you will please join me in the library, Mr Jones will be with us soon."

Mrs Jones' face lit up with what was surely that same erroneous assumption. "Oh! Have you a request of my husband, Lord Darcy?"

"Please just come with me. All will be explained."

He offered his elbow to Miss Jones in literal and figurative support for the walk to the library, and she accepted, squeezing her hand on his forearm in her nervousness. 

"Do you still want to do this?" he asked, bending slightly so not to be heard.

"I must," she said, "or I would never be able to look my father in the eye again."

Once they arrived Darcy assured that they had the room to themselves and closed all the doors but for one. She sat in the middle of the sofa, her mother sat beside her, and Darcy stood just behind Miss Jones.

"What is this all about, then?" her mother chirped. "I am very confused."

"When Mr Jones and Jamie arrive," said Darcy, "she will tell you."


	7. In which details unfold and certain virtues revealed.

_Tuesday, 14 June_  
_Late afternoon_

" _Eloped?!_ "

The reaction after she gave them details on what had been planned while the hunt was on—both those Darcy knew and those he did not, such as the fact that Cleaver had been staying in a nearby inn awaiting word for the best time to flee; what a gift the special circumstances hunt must have seemed to him!—was about what Darcy had expected from mother and father alike. Jamie simply sat in stupefied silence.

"Obviously we did _not_ elope," she said, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Do not be flippant with me, young lady," her father said hotly, rising to his feet. "That you planned to run off against my wishes! Oh, you disappoint and wound your father so."

She looked like she might erupt into tears.

"It was I who came upon the landau," cut in Darcy, "and I who overheard her express doubts in going through with it."

"You, sir, who must think nothing of her for this," he said. At this she did begin to cry.

"Not so; rather the opposite," he said calmly. "I overheard that she wished for her betrothed to gain your approval rather than proceed with these ill-conceived plans. It was he who applied physical force to her to try to get her into the landau. Had I not been there I believe she would have been taken off very much against her will."

"And for that we are deeply grateful, sir," said Mrs Jones with tears in her eyes. "Bridget, what on earth were you thinking?"

"I was stupid, and I am sorrier than I can say," she said, weeping in earnest, her face in her hands. "I have learnt my lesson but well."

"I suppose you need not have told us at all," came her brother's voice as he looked to his sister. "You might have never said a thing and you and Darcy here would have been the only ones to know."

"She insisted upon being honest about it," Darcy said. "And I could only hope to offer my support to the facts as they transpired."

"Is it really over with this fellow?" her father asked sceptically. "Will we need to stand guard once we return home?"

"Only if you wish revenge yourself on him as any father would want to," said Miss Jones. "He is nothing at all to me now, and I do not wish to see him ever again."

Mr Jones looked thoughtful as he gazed upon his daughter's tear-stained cheeks. After a few moments he sighed and said, "I do believe you are contrite and regretful, and that you shall not think to try such a thing again."

"No sir, you can be sure I will not."

"All the same, you shall return to your room for the remainder of the evening, and take your meal alone to reflect on the events of today."

"Father!" she said. "I said that I was sorry, and as Jamie pointed out—"

"It was the right thing to do to tell us, but you must still pay the consequences for your poor choices, Bridget. A night deprived of social interaction is the least of your worries, and had I found out later, things would have been much worse for you, so do not regret your honesty." He offered a small smile; it told Darcy no long lasting damage was done between father and daughter. "Come, upstairs with you. Pamela, my dear, take her to her room."

"I will go," she said, "if I may have a brief moment with Lord Darcy first."

This request took him aback, and as she stood he did as well. He indicated they stand off to the side for a modest amount of privacy.

"Sir, I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done today," she said. "Because I think of your mother as a second mother to me, and of you and your good brother almost as my own, you should not feel restrained; please share what transpired, particularly as my dear godmother should know I have been cured of my folly."

This mention of Lady Darcy's awareness of the situation surprised him as much as the freedom he had to speak of what might have been viewed by those outside the situation as near-scandal. "I will do so, if you wish."

"I do," she said. "I do not want to keep secrets from her. She means too much to me." She glanced to the side. "Well. Off to my punishment before my mother starts haranguing me."

"Tomorrow is another day," he said. "I hope to see you then."

Shortly after departing with her mother, the men left the library as well, intent for the drawing room as a prelude for dinner; as they did, each of the Jones men shook his hand with enthusiasm. "I thank you, Lord Darcy, for what you did today," said Mr Jones as they shook. "If I sounded like I did not appreciate it, I apologise."

"No need for apologies," Darcy replied. "Any man with a shred of scruples would have done the same."

"In this case it was you," he said, "and it was my daughter you saved. I am profoundly grateful beyond my ability to express it."

When they arrived to the drawing room before dinner, he felt as if all eyes were upon him, at least those of his mother and brother. "Where is Miss Jones?" asked Peter upon their close approach.

Darcy indicated without words they should all step to the side and away from the others for a measure of privacy. Once he assured no one was within earshot, Darcy replied in terms he thought his naval-minded brother would appreciate. "Confined to quarters."

"What for, precisely?" Peter said. "Giving shelter to the enemy, protecting the furry red demons during the hunt?" When Darcy did not respond right away, he added, "I sense levity was not appropriate, and I apologise."

"What is it, Mark?" asked his mother. "Your expression is grave."

He was not sure how to word it in such a way that did not paint Miss Jones in a bad light. "If not for my intervention, Miss Jones might well be on her way to Scotland, willingly or not."

The normally quick wit of his brother seemed to have abandoned him; his mother gasped. "Do I take your meaning correctly?"

Darcy nodded curtly in the affirmative. "It had been arranged prior to today, but she had come to have second thoughts because she did not want to hurt her family. The man did not want to accept this and nearly pulled her by force into the waiting coach."

"Goodness," said Lady Darcy, taking care to keep her voice quiet. "I knew Mr Cleaver had been courting her fiercely, and the poor girl had taken it very hard when her father refused consent for their wedding… but _this_! _This_ must have been a temporary lapse on her part; she is a fine young lady and Mr Cleaver must have coerced into making the plans in the first place. I was always of the opinion that it was unwise of Mr Jones to keep her from society…"

"You knew about all of this?" Darcy asked, astonished that she knew even the detail of the refused offer.

"Mrs Jones confides in me," said his mother, "as does Bridget herself."

"Why did you say nothing to me of Cleaver?"

Lady Darcy smiled a small smile. "I could not hope for you to show interest in her if you thought she was spoken for."

Darcy pursed his lips. "She is indeed regretful now that she sees what a heinous mistake she was about to make," said Darcy, "but she made the plans freely, if under false pretences."

"Wait," said Peter at last. "Mr Cleaver? The same from your days at university?"

"The same one."

"But he was—"

"And still is," Darcy interrupted, anticipating his description. "I suppose Jones either did not realise I knew Cleaver too, or chose not to reveal that to me for whatever reason."

"So, Bridget…" said Lady Darcy. "She is truly… unscathed?"

He knew about what she was concerned. "She is fine," he said. "Otherwise it is probable this scheme never would have come to be. I believed his intention to marry her had a single purpose only." He had no intention of spelling it out for the two of them; thankfully they seemed to understand well enough.

Lady Darcy said, "I hope that you do not think less of Miss Jones for this."

"I do not," said Peter, "and if I could arrange it, I would subject him to public flogging. With plenty of women willing to throw themselves away on a man like Cleaver, he hardly needed to try to hurt a sweet girl like Miss Jones."

_That was part of the challenge_ , Darcy thought, though in an effort to disregard his brother's impropriety he said only, "Miss Jones merely believed him when he said he had changed. For this I do not blame her, because he never will."

After this pronouncement the three of them spoke little; then dinner was served, and they spoke even less.

Shortly after dinner, as he was contemplating (over port and cheroots) preparing the letter he had written for the post, Darcy received an urgent post of his own requesting his immediate return to Grafton Underwood for business in his role as magistrate. This inexorably (and unfortunately) brought to mind his own brother's comment about punishment for Cleaver. His mother and brother had not planned to leave for another day, so he arranged with Jamie to ride his horse back immediately after breakfast, and Jamie could accompany his mother and brother in the carriage.

"Please be sure to deliver my regrets to your sister," Darcy said to Jamie. "I expect I will see her once you all return to Grafton Underwood."

"I would be happy to oblige," he said.

Instead of contemplating a letter he needed no longer to deliver, he now thought of Miss Jones' words just prior to their parting. He wondered if he was reading too much into her reference to himself and Peter as if they were like her own kin, but then thought he should not invent problems when there might be none.

………

_Wednesday, 15 June_

Darcy observed as he partook of breakfast the next morning that the sky was overcast, and he hoped this meant it would not rain; regardless of the weather he would need to make the ride. It was his good fortune that the clouds merely provided cover against the blazing summer sun that might have ordinarily beleaguered him, and he made it back to Grafton Manor in excellent time, stopping once for a meal at the approximate midpoint in the town of Thorney.

Upon his arrival he was met by the steward and briefly apprised of the situation that required his attention: a property line dispute between two neighbours. He decided he would make the ride after he had had his dinner—abominably early, in his opinion—and get the business taken care of before sundown, which, being near midsummer, would be hours off yet.

Darcy did not think of himself as a physically intimidating man, but he had height over both property owners, which he thought probably helped the dispute to be easily settled when Darcy firmly pointed out the logic of the complainant's argument. This got Darcy home very quickly, which was unfortunate as the house seemed all too quiet and lonely after a week surrounded by others. He read a little, reviewed some correspondence that had arrived in his absence, and went to bed early in anticipation of accompanying the steward on a working tour of the estate. His venerable father had instilled in him that there was no such thing as being too familiar with one's land and the people on and near it.

Within hours of waking he almost felt as if he had never been away, both in the best possible way and the worst; it inspired him such that ideas were ricocheting lightning-fast around in his head and the urge was very strong to begin some of the projects he and the steward discussed during the course of their tour, but he also felt a loss, a sense that King's Lynn was like a dream that had faded upon waking, that it had not been real at all.

_Stop such foolish notions_ , he thought as he brought the horse to stable, squinting in the early afternoon sun. Instead he bade the steward good day and went directly to the house, hat under his arm, intending on refreshing himself with a bit of food and making himself presentable after the day out of doors, as he knew his mother and brother were due to arrive some time that afternoon and he wanted to be ready to receive them.

He had not at all counted on his mother's desire to be home. Sitting there on the drive, clearly newly arrived, was the coach, still in the process of being unloaded. Tentatively he went in and saw not only Lady Darcy, Peter, but—

"Miss Jones," he said, feeling quite taken aback, willing his cheeks not to stain with embarrassment. She was in the act of untying her pale blue bonnet ribbon when he addressed her, and with a smile she removed it from her head.

"Lord Darcy," she said with a little curtsey, holding out the edge of her dress, which matched her bonnet ribbon exactly in hue. "Ever filling the role."

"Forgive me, I did not anticipate your arrival so soon," he said, his voice a bit cool to temper his disorientation. He looked to his mother, who tried not to look too amused through her expression of disapproval; he looked also to his brother, who did not rein in his smirk. With his gaze returned to Miss Jones, he said in that same tone, "And I did not anticipate your presence at all, Miss Jones. Forgive me my appearance."

"Do not apologise," she said, her good humour vanished. "Your mother insisted I make the journey with her and Captain Darcy, and instead Jamie went with our parents. I should apologise to you for intruding."

"Nonsense, child," said Lady Darcy. "You were invited into this home."

"I trust you had a pleasant journey?" asked Darcy, hoping to change the subject.

"I was about to ask the same of you," said Peter wryly. "Did you only just get in on Jamie's horse?"

"I was touring the grounds with Mr Benwick so I could see the state of affairs."

"Mr Benwick?" asked Miss Jones.

"The steward," Peter reminded.

"Right, yes, my apologies," said Darcy. "Anyway, I had hardly had a chance before we swept out of town to King's Lynn, and there is much to be done, and much that needed my approval."

"Do not let us keep you from refreshing yourself after your time out of doors," said Peter. "I have matters to attend to, myself." At this Miss Jones inexplicably grinned playfully before looking to Darcy, at which her face went stone cold serious again. 

As Lady Darcy made her way out of the foyer to direct the baggage to the appropriate locations, Peter walked towards the direction of the library and Miss Jones appeared to start following him. "Miss Jones, a word?"

"Of course, sir."

After she came nearer, he asked, "Is everything all right? Are you feeling quite yourself after what happened the other day?"

"The pain has lessened some, but I have been kept in high spirits by… friends," she said. He watched her bite on her lower lip; he realised she had done so because it was quivering. "Sir, despite the kindness you have previously shown me… if you do not find my company agreeable anymore, please say so. I will understand."

He furrowed his brow. "What makes you think I find you disagreeable to be around?"

Her gaze fell to her hands, from which she had not yet had the chance to remove her gloves. "Your countenance at seeing me, at noticing my presence, was…" She trailed off, blushing. "Less than welcoming."

He cast his thoughts back to when he had entered, and realised she was right; he had not at all been hospitable. "I am very sorry for that," he said. "I truly was just caught off guard, not particularly presentable after riding out of doors, and desperately in need of fresh clothes. I am indeed quite pleased to see you."

She looked up again, the hint of a smile finding her lips. He had forgotten in just two short days how like the summer sky the shade of her eyes were. "I am glad," she said. "Truly." She straightened her posture and beamed a smile. "Well, I shall let you to your wardrobe, and I in the meantime have an engagement of my own. Oh." She screwed up her face. "Poor choice of words."

He chuckled a little; he knew she was probably referring to spending time with his mother as he had heard she often did. "Perhaps. Go on, and I will see you later."

With that he headed up the stairs and towards his quarters, resisting the urge to look back to watch her head in the direction of whichever activity she had previously arranged. His valet helped him to choose something smart to wear, and after a quick warm bath, he dressed and, feeling suddenly ravenous, went to the drawing room to see if anything had been prepared for lunch.

He found his mother in there, alone, which perplexed him. "Mark, there you are," she said, looking up from the needlework she loved but so rarely did due to her declining short-distance focus. "What are you looking for?"

There was a plate of bread, cheese and apples, and he picked up a bit of each. "Something to eat," he said, rather redundantly, biting into the bread and cheese. "I was just confused about where Miss Jones might be if not with you."

"I believe she is keeping your brother company," she said with a smile. It was a bit mysterious of her; his brows drew together in confusion. "She plays with her own brother so frequently," his mother continued, "I did not see any harm in allowing her to do so here."

Darcy had an inkling of what she might mean, and to confirm or disprove this, after finishing the bread and cheese, he left the room, apple in hand, and went directly to where the billiards table was. He entered the room just in time to see (and hear) Miss Jones squeal in delight over a win.

Peter caught the undoubtedly shocked expression on Darcy's face and began to laugh unabashedly. Miss Jones spun around, saw Darcy and flushed bright red. To set her at ease, he smiled. "I see you have bested a naval captain at billiards. This is a true accomplishment," Darcy said, then slid into a mockingly stern tone to add, "if exceedingly non-standard for a lady such as yourself."

She gave him a sidelong look.

Finally he said, "Impropriety will not be tolerated."

Cautiously she allowed a smile, then a laugh. "Sometimes I cannot tell when you are being truly serious."

"He used to always be truly serious," said his brother. Darcy looked up to see a pleased smile on Peter's face.

She narrowed her eyes but offered a crooked grin. "Is that so?" 

"My brother exaggerates," Darcy said, feeling a little heat near his collar.

"Shall I tempt you, then," she began, "with a game of billiards?"

Darcy was not proud of the thought that had flared through his head upon the conclusion of the first part of the sentence, helped along by the fact that his eyes had lit upon her Spanish silver necklace, showcased nicely by the collar of her dress. He became all too aware of what else was showcased by that collar, and he quickly looked away. "If you wish, I would be happy to," he said, turning his awkward movement into a search for somewhere to set the apple down. There was nowhere convenient. "Here," he said, handing it to his brother. "Hold this for me."

Their games were long and challenging and proved two things to Darcy: that she was indeed a skilled billiards player (something she could hardly boast to other ladies in society) and her previous wins had not merely been the advantage of surprise over him, and that they were well-matched to play one another. When they finished—she bested him, three out of five rounds—he looked up and realised it must have been hours that had passed, and that his brother had slipped out.

"This has been a great diversion," she said as she turned the cue in her hands, then turned to look at him; her cheeks were flush with excitement, her hair was escaping its pins in little golden wisps. Her chest rose and fell as she sighed, and Darcy realised he was inescapably more in love with her than ever. "Great indeed. Thank you for your time this afternoon. I am sure you have more important things to do."

"A pleasure, truly," he said, thinking that 'important' was surely a relative concept; getting to spend this much time with her with no one else around was a rare gift. "It has been a welcome break from the activities of this morning."

"How about best of seven, then?" she queried playfully. It was impossible to refuse.

They engaged in a game once more and she was well on her way to taking a fourth when it occurred to Darcy that, though she was quite skilled, he was also quite distracted both by her very proximity and by the fact that they were alone, and these things were surely contributing to the state of his play. This was underscored when she leaned forward to take a shot at a ball and, from across the table, as her necklace dangled down, Darcy was offered quite a view.

"Still at it, are we?"

His brother's voice startled him, and he turned quickly to face him, straightening his posture and feeling as if he had been caught doing something illicit. "Peter," he said.

"Was coming to enquire whether or not you intended to stop for dinner."

Darcy wondered briefly if he should arrange for her passage home (if she did not insist upon walking) when she answered, standing up straight, "Oh, yes, so very sorry. The time got away from us. We will be there presently."

Darcy realised that, naturally, his mother and brother had invited her to stay for dinner. "Let us not keep my mother waiting."

He corralled the balls for storage while she returned the cues, then, with a small smile, she claimed his elbow for him to escort her to dinner as he had done each night she had dined at King's Lynn. It was not strictly necessary; he knew she was just being playful, reinforced by her comment, "Assassins could be around any corner." He was glad to do it all the same.

Dinner was excellent as always and he found himself quite grateful for the greater intimacy of the setting; the din of mealtime at the Alconburys' home had become increasingly difficult to bear. Darcy did not say much, just observed in silence, and was quite certain his brother would tease him mercilessly about the fact that he seemed mesmerised by Miss Jones. He was willing to take the teasing; it was a fair price to pay for the ability to be thus mesmerised.

The carriage ride home seemed to have been previously arranged, too, and after dinner and dessert, she gathered her things in preparation to leave. "You will, of course, join me in accompanying Miss Jones back to The Gables," said Peter, assuming an answer in the affirmative in the tone in which he spoke.

"Of course."

The ride was not a particularly long one as their houses were not terribly far apart, but he spent the time in contemplation of the lady before him. Upon their arrival to her house, Darcy emerged to help her out, and as she stepped down he thought fleetingly of her arrival to the Alconburys' when she had jumped from the coach. He smiled at the recollection.

The three of them walked to the door—Darcy noticed that his brother remained a pace behind—and when they ascended to the porch, Darcy reached forth and opened the door for her. "Thank you," she said as she passed before him and into the entryway.

Shortly after their entrance her mother came into view. "I thought I heard a carriage on the drive," Mrs Jones said, smiling. "Thank you for bringing her home."

"It was no trouble," said Darcy.

The two Jones men appeared then, the elder looking pleased to see his daughter, and the younger looking equally pleased to see his sister in Darcy's company. "I see you have delivered her safe and sound," said Mr Jones. "I had no doubts. Please, sirs, join my son and me for after dinner port and a few puffs on your pipes—you have eaten, have you not?" 

"A very fine dinner indeed," said Miss Jones.

Darcy would have preferred to linger in the company of Miss Jones, but thought time with her father and brother would not be time ill-spent. "We would be pleased to join you, sir," he said, removing his hat. He turned and bowed slightly towards Miss Jones. "You will excuse us."

"Of course," she said, "but do not think of leaving without saying goodbye."

"We would not dream of it," offered Peter.

The port was a very good one, excellently complementing Peter's cheroots, which he shared with the Jones men. They talked between puffs and sips, mostly Darcy describing at Mr Jones' request what he had done that day. Now that all uneasiness had been abolished between them, Darcy found Mr Jones a pleasure to talk to; wry sense of humour and full of modest self-deprecation, much like his daughter. When they concluded, Darcy explained they should return home and in unison they rose from where they sat. Walking from the drawing room towards the door, however, Darcy's ear was caught by the sound of music so beautiful he could not speak.

"Whatever is that?" asked Peter.

Mr Jones smiled. "That would likely be my Bridget. My wife encourages her to practise the harp since she does not do so much on her own."

"This is practising?" Peter asked. Darcy felt much the same way.

At that moment, he heard a sour tone and a mild curse.

"Bridget! Language!" said her mother exasperatedly. "The Darcy gentlemen are still here. Do you want them to hear you use such vulgarity?"

"No, Mother," said Miss Jones resignedly.

They crossed the threshold and into the door just as she poised her fingers over the strings of a very beautiful instrument; Welsh harp, if Darcy had to guess, since he saw no pedals and it seemed to have more strings than most harps he had seen. She was a vision of loveliness, ready to brush her fingers across the strings again, but at their appearance she instead tipped the harp upright again and stood up from her stool. 

"Do you see what I mean?" asked her mother.

Miss Jones seemed to disregard her mother's words and spoke instead to Darcy and his brother. "Are you leaving, then?"

"Yes," said Darcy. "We dared not leave without saying goodbye."

She smiled. "Perhaps we will see one another soon."

"I sincerely hope so," Darcy said. "You play wonderfully."

Peter agreed. "It was unfortunate that there was no harp at the Alconburys'. I would have much preferred your playing to the caterwauling of Miss Enderby's."

"Peter," Darcy scolded in hush tones, though honestly he agreed.

Darcy could not be quite sure with the distance between them, but he thought her cheeks went pink. "I am not nearly as—" she began, then simply finished, "Thank you, sir." He wondered what she had begun to say but did not; 'not nearly as good as Miss Enderby,' perhaps? "And thank you again for dinner tonight."

"Of course."

"Oh," said Mrs Jones, "you must come for dinner, all of you. Are you free tomorrow night? Or the next?"

"I do not think we have plans, but I will consult with my mother when I return home." Darcy put on his hat, as did his brother, a signal they were about to leave. "We shall send word soon."

They were barely to the coach when Peter chuckled to himself. "Sorry about the 'caterwauling' comment. It just came out."

"I did not see that anyone was overcome with the urge to defend Miss Enderby's playing," mused Darcy with a grin.

"So, Mark," said Peter after a moment. "When will you make it official?"

"Pardon?"

"Courting Miss Jones."

Darcy did not respond immediately, but their ride was short, and he did not want to have this discussion in the house. "It is too soon," he said. "She is still mending a broken heart, and I will not pressure her."

"I do not think much pressure will be required, brother," said Peter. "She seems half in love with you already. She only needs to allow herself a chance to realise it."

Darcy made a dismissive sound. "She thinks of us equally like brothers."

"She does not blush when _I_ compliment her," he said. "Perhaps she needs more encouragement from you, not less."

Darcy thought it was his brother seeing what he wanted to see, but on the subject he said no more. He was resolute on being patient, on not catching her on the rebound, of not making himself into a consolation prize, even if she had, by all accounts, had her heart turned away from that scoundrel Cleaver.


	8. In which poetry is recited.

_Friday, 17 June_

The Darcys dined with the Joneses the following night. Jamie revealed over pipe and port that Miss Jones had confided to him that she had beaten both brothers at billiards. "I should not feel this proud of her," he added in that same confidential tone, "but I do."

After that, as they partook of tea and dessert in the drawing room, Miss Jones was persuaded to play a song on the harp. So rarely did music touch Darcy's heart so deeply; though her playing was not absolutely perfect, the soul she infused into the tune more than made up for the small errors.

"It was my dear departed mother's, the harp," admitted Mr Jones, his eyes a bit misty. "She was very talented. Spent many afternoons as a child listening to her play. It warms my heart to see and hear my daughter work the strings, though if she were to just practise a bit more…" He trailed off.

"With all due respect, sir," Darcy said, "I would rather listen to your daughter play than to listen another who can like clockwork hit every string in the correct sequence."

"Kind of you to say," said Mr Jones. "I hope you do not think I am besmirching her ability in any way. It is not an easy instrument to master, with three sets of strings, and it is an old instrument that I do not get to maintain as often as I like." He chuckled a little self-effacingly. "Harp strings are not easy to come by, either. Special order from Wales. I try to keep some on hand for when one snaps, but… well, I suppose it is not so bad she does not practise as often as she should," he said with a grin.

Darcy knew that such strings were probably not inexpensive, either. He wanted to say that he would buy her as many strings as needed, a new harp if desired, but he did not want to appear too forward. _When she is my wife_ , he thought to console himself, _I shall buy her a thousand harps, a hundred-thousand harp strings._ He also thought his own drawing room could do with a harp for such occasions when his mother might like to hear her goddaughter play. He resolved to look into acquiring one at the earliest possible convenience.

Her song concluded, and present company gave her raucous applause. She flushed bright red. "Really, I am not that good," she said modestly. "There were fudged notes all over the place." 

"Hardly, hardly noticeable at all," said Darcy. She offered him a smile but seemed much more embarrassed at his words; he recalled what his brother said about her blushing at his compliments. He rose. "Would you care for some tea?"

"I am not sure I should handle a teacup," she said, taking the seat next to the one he had vacated on the sofa. "The tips of my fingers are still stinging a bit after playing." She turned her hands over and examined her fingers, then rubbing the offended objects against her thumbs.

After a moment's thought (in which he contemplated holding her hands in his and giving her fingertips relief) he sat again beside her. "Maybe in a few minutes."

"Yes," she said, turning to look at him. "Thank you."

"I think," said Jamie Jones, "Sunday would be a fine day for an outing. Bridget, what do you think?"

"Me? You know I am always in favour of an outing," she said, turning to look at her brother. Darcy looked too; he and Peter, seated beside one another, had the air of co-conspirators. "What had you in mind?"

"A picnic, perhaps?" said Peter. 

"Oh, yes _please!_ " she said. "May I invite Magda to come along?"

At Darcy's confused look, Jamie explained, "Miss Reilly and her family are new to Grafton Underwood since you went to London, Mark. You must not yet have been introduced to them."

"Indeed not," said Darcy. "I was not yet back a week before we left for Norfolk."

"I see no harm in inviting Miss Reilly along," said Jamie. "A picnic it shall be then."

"Leave it to us," said Peter. "We will arrange the finest picnic you ever saw."

Lady Darcy spoke up. "I shall oversee this endeavour."

They all laughed. "I feel much better about a picnic now," said Miss Jones. She then got to her feet. "Well. I think I can handle a teacup now."

"Allow me," said Darcy, rising to his feet too, towering over her. "Please."

"All right," she said. "Thank you."

Conversation bloomed around him—Jamie and Peter, his mother and the Joneses—but all he could think of was how much he looked forward to Sunday, even if another girl unknown to him would be joining them. If she was a friend of Miss Jones' she was probably perfectly nice. He had liked her other friends well enough. It would be fine. He would at least get to spend time with her, and that was all that really mattered to him.

She received the teacup and smiled when she saw he had also brought a small plate with three _petits four_ on them. "Oh, delightful. Thank you again."

"My pleasure."

She bit daintily into one and then sipped her tea, then met his eye and chuckled.

"What do you find so amusing?" he asked.

"Seems very strange, sir, for you, a viscount or earl or something, to be bringing tea to me."

He smiled. "Not at all strange to me to do a kindness for a friend." She lowered her gaze back to her teacup and he instantly wondered if he had said the wrong thing. "It does happen to be viscount," he said, "but I believe we should have no such formality between us, Miss Jones."

She sighed.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," she said with a wan smile. "Aside from the absurdity of your statement. Having to call me 'Miss Jones' seems too formal. Just wishing you could call me 'Bridget' as my brother does." Hastily she added, "I know, I know, that would be most improper. But I feel it is a silly rule. Perhaps a sternly worded letter to Lord Liverpool is in order."

Despite her jest, he found himself at a loss for words. When Darcy and his family bade them all goodnight he was still thinking of what she had said. Miss Jones. _Bridget_.

Saturday he barely remembered passing by. He occupied himself with such inanity as to be unremarkable. He could think only of the following day, the slated picnic. He did not care where it was or what they ate. If he could not in good conscience court her so soon after Cleaver's deception, he would at least spend as much time as he could with her. During dinner that evening he felt a bit on edge; ordinarily he would have been pleased for such a quiet, peaceful night. Aside from the picnic, he was also preoccupied with where he could obtain a suitable instrument, and where he would put it. Ostensibly they had a music library of sorts which housed a pianoforte that had provided many hours of enjoyment to his mother (and to them in turn as her audience), but Lady Darcy had not been in a mood to play for some time, not since her eyesight for near things had gotten worse, and especially not since her husband had died. Putting a harp in that room would not be beneficial in any way, and would do better in a more public place.

"Do you suppose," he blurted, "the drawing room might be more complete with a harp?"

Lady Darcy and Peter stopped in their conversation and turned to stare at him, which caused a wave of heat to crawl over his skin. He felt it grow even hotter when his mother and brother erupted into laughter.

"Mark, you are hopelessly smitten," said Lady Darcy. "You may as well pursue a formal courtship sooner than later and be that much closer to a wedding date."

"He will not do so," said Peter. "I have already asked."

"I will not do so _yet_ ," clarified Darcy. He then explained to his mother his reasons, and after the telling, she seemed to agree they were sound.

"However, do not let reason ride too harsh a rein over emotion when it comes to love," she added. "It is good to be prudent, but not so prudent that it slips away."

"Duly noted," he said gruffly, to which his mother chuckled again and leaned to pat his arm. He wondered why he should feel embarrassed at all, but he knew: he was not used to his feelings being so close to the surface. Certainly it was not because Miss Jones embarrassed him in any way.

It was not only discomfitures of this nature caused blood to rush to his skin. Where in his days he had the benefit of conscious control over his waking mind, his nights had no such restraint, and his sleeping mind had leave to recollect every golden strand of hair, every smile on her rosy lips, every curve of a body he could not truly see but imagined nonetheless. That part of him screamed to court her now, even as his rational mind knew it was best to wait.

………

_Sunday, 19 June_

Sunday brought sunshine and blue skies, as if arranged as part of events of the day by his mother, ostensibly helping his brother and Jamie Jones, but in actual fact taking care of most of the details herself. "It is a pleasure and a joy," Lady Darcy said, clasping her hands together. "Young people on a day out, lovely to think of."

"You will not be joining the party?"

"Oh, heavens no," she said. "This is not something to which old women tag themselves."

"You are not an old woman."

"And you do not need me there when you are trying to talk to Bridget."

He caught himself before he said her given name. "Miss Jones will have her friend with her," he said.

"As I said," she repeated, "young people on a day out. Have a good time."

He and Peter had two horses saddled as well as the open-air carriage, then embarked for The Gables. It made sense for the Darcy men to provide the carriage given that his mother had arranged for the procurement of the food, and they needed something with which to transport it. It had also been arranged in advance that the carriage could also convey the ladies. When the men arrived they found Jamie and a ginger-haired girl emerging almost immediately. Darcy worried for a moment that perhaps Miss Jones had taken ill and could not join them, but then the door opened a second time and he saw a swirl of gauzy, white fabric, bonnet ribbons of blue streaming out behind her as she ran to join her brother and friend, the toes of her flat shoes peeking out with every stride forward.

The horses and the carriage came to rest close to them. Darcy dismounted and bowed at the waist. Miss Jones seemed exceedingly thrilled. "This shall be a fine picnic indeed!" she said. 

"Miss Jones. You are looking very well," he said placidly. Her friend looked at him with scrutiny; his hat added even more height to his tall frame.

"Thank you. I have thought of nothing since we proposed it," she said, beaming a smile. He said nothing more, waiting for an introduction for her friend, who made a quiet but polite throat-clearing noise from her side. "Yes, very sorry! Lord Darcy, this is my friend, Miss Magda Reilly; Magda, this is Lord Darcy."

He bowed to her, and she in turn curtseyed politely. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Reilly," he said.

"The pleasure is mine," Miss Reilly returned. "You have been until recently in London, I understand? I have had the honour of meeting your mother, sir. She is a fine lady, indeed."

"Thank you for the compliment on her behalf. Miss Reilly, this is my brother, Captain Peter Darcy." Peter bowed and offered her his best smile.

"An honour to meet you, sir," Miss Reilly said as she curtseyed, beaming brightly from beneath the brim of her own pale green bonnet.

With assistance the ladies got into the coach, and after Jamie settled himself in beside their luncheon for the afternoon, they were off towards the appointed meadow at a healthy clip; so healthy, in fact, that Miss Jones' untied bonnet went whizzing from her head. "Oh!" she said, turning and reaching back for it, but it was too late; it went sailing up and onto the breeze like a leaf. Darcy, trailing behind the vehicle, manoeuvred the horse with enough dexterity that he was able to reach out and grab the wayward hat before it had a chance to reach the ground. He then trotted to flank the carriage and extended his arm to hand her bonnet back to her. 

"You may wish to tie it this time," he said with a smile.

"Thank you, sir," she said, reaching a gloved hand forward to accept it. She slipped it onto her head, covering her neatly pinned hair. Tying the ribbon firmly under her raised chin, she said, "I was in such a rush to get out that I neglected to do so."

They were to the meadow in no time at all; the blankets were spread out under the sprawling boughs of a large tree, and the food baskets were placed in a semi-circular shape for the picnic-goers to choose morsels to eat. Peter and Jamie were less than subtle in leaving a large gap next to Miss Jones for Darcy to occupy. He dared not call attention to it, bringing to mind the old proverb about not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

The afternoon was spent with sunshine and conversation, stretches of silent yet comfortable contemplation as they picked at the cold roast beef and pastry biscuits, partook of ginger-beer and soda-water. Miss Reilly suggested a turn around the meadow lest a post-meal sluggishness overtake them.

"A fine idea," said Peter, rising to his feet. The others did as well; Darcy offered his hand to assist Miss Jones up off of the ground, then turned away as Miss Jones smoothed down the crinkles in her dress. With that, they struck out and within a few paces they straggled apart based on their stride, excepting of course that Darcy's stride was naturally much longer than the lady with whom he chose to keep pace. Catching his attention was the fact that the auburn-haired friend of Miss Jones' took care to keep up with his brother and Jamie Jones, unabashedly trying to make conversation with the naval captain, who was being polite but gave off an air of disinterest. He imagined that Peter would have words about this for him in private.

He folded his hands upon one another behind his back as they walked beneath the trees, branches swaying in the wind and casting speckles of golden light over himself and his companion. Neither of them spoke for quite some time; it was a serene silence, one during which he felt no pressure to speak. He was content being in her company.

"You are quite pensive today, sir," came the quiet voice from beside him.

"I am in awe of nature," he said, then glanced towards her with a little smile.

She smiled, looking more herself in response. "I had hoped it was not on my account."

"Not in the least," he said; if anything she added to his awe of the beauty of nature, but he could hardly say so. "I am quite thankful Jamie had this idea."

"As am I," she said, the ribbons at her chin fluttering. "I had another stellar idea," she added hesitantly.

"What would that be?"

"I would quite like to ride horseback again, but…" She trailed off. "I am certain I do not want my mother to know."

He chuckled. "I think that such an endeavour would be unwise."

"Maybe if she knows you are going to teach me proper riding habits, it would be acceptable to her," she added on an inspiration. "Perhaps you can do that, if it is not too great an imposition."

He struggled to think whether or not the stable housed a side saddle. He vowed if it did not that he would purchase one and say it was his mother's. "Riding is one of my favourite pastimes," he said. "It would be a pleasure."

"Oh, lovely," she said with an extra bounce in her step. "Can we start as soon as possible?"

"I will have to consult my daybook," he said; it was not entirely an untruth, as he was not sure when his presence would be required in his capacity as the lord of the house, though in honesty he wanted time to procure a saddle if need be. Perhaps his brother could accompany him to London…. "I will send word when I know."

"Fantastic." She turned to offer a smile once more, then looked away playfully. "It is strange to think we have both lived here all of our lives yet only just got to know each other."

"Between my being away at school, you being away, then my going to London, it is not all that surprising."

"It _is_ surprising considering your friendship through schooling with my brother," she said.

Darcy did not have a ready response for this that did not in essence highlight the fact that she was a lady and he, a gentleman. "It is not for us to question the past, but to appreciate the present."

"And anticipate the future," she added. 

Her words surprised him; he did not quite know what she meant by this, and he did not get a chance to ask, because they had circled around and were back with the rest of the group again. He wondered if it was too optimistic to interpret it as a hint meant to encourage him.

Miss Jones sat again in the same spot she had occupied before; Darcy claimed his former spot at well. As Miss Reilly, Peter and Jamie commented on the shapes of the clouds in the sky, Darcy watched as Miss Jones reached for the reticule she had brought with her and pulled out a small volume. Darcy smiled when he saw Lord Byron's name on the spine.

"Reading on a picnic?" asked Darcy.

"Yes, if that is all right," she said, flipping it open.

"Do you prefer Byron's company to ours?" he said. He meant it in jest but it came out a bit too gruffly.

She looked to him. "You should know that is not true at all. Besides, my intention was to educate you, sir."

"Me?"

"Yes, in the beautiful language of the poet, to counteract your love of brutal fox hunting." Her tone indicated she was being flippant, so he did not take offence. She turned pages, no trivial task while wearing gloves. She found for what she had been searching, cleared her throat, raised her blue eyes to look at him, then with a little smile, she began to read:

>   
>  _Remind me not, remind me not,_  
>  Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,  
>  When all my soul was given to thee;  
>  Hours that may never be forgot,  
>  Till Time unnerves our vital powers,  
>  And thou and I shall cease to be.  
>  Can I forget—canst thou forget,  
>  When playing with thy golden hair,  
>  How quick thy fluttering heart did move?  
>  Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,  
>  With eyes so languid, breast so fair,  
>  And lips, though silent, breathing love.  
>  When thus reclining on my breast,  
>  Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,  
>  As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,  
>  And still we near and nearer prest,  
>  And still our glowing lips would meet,  
>  As if in kisses to expire. 

He knew that she had chosen this for the skilful way in which the poet had weaved such evocative imagery; she could not have known that the words were echoing so closely the private thoughts he had had about her. He willed himself to remain as neutral in expression and in posture as he could, but he knew the gentlemen there knew exactly the effect that Byron's words were having on him and continued to have as she went on:

> _And then those pensive eyes would close,_  
>  And bid their lids each other seek,  
>  Veiling the azure orbs below;  
>  While their long lashes' darken'd gloss  
>  Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,  
>  Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.  
>  I dreamt last night our love return'd,  
>  And, sooth to say, that very dream  
>  Was sweeter in its phantasy,  
>  Than if for other hearts I burn'd,  
>  For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam  
>  In Rapture's wild reality.  
>  Then tell me not, remind me not,  
>  Of hours which, though for ever gone,  
>  Can still a pleasing dream restore,  
>  Till Thou and I shall be forgot,  
>  And senseless, as the mouldering stone  
>  Which tells that we shall be no more.

She paused and closed the book, looking to Darcy again, cheeks tinged pink from her passionate reading. "It does end on rather a depressing note," she said, "but you have to admit that it is good."

Darcy realised he had never understood the poet in the past because he had himself never before experienced the feelings the poet sought to convey. Now that he had, now that he was in love, he was well acquainted with how acutely such feelings struck at the heart, and he was amazed that such turbulent thoughts and profound emotions could be at all imparted by mere English words.

Before he could speak for himself, though, Peter joked, "My brother will never admit to anything of the sort."

"I shall surprise you," said Darcy, "and say that I do, in fact, admit that it is good."

"I am indeed all astonishment," said Peter.

"As am I, frankly," said Miss Jones, "what with the avid defence I have had to mount in the past with you regarding Byron."

"You may consider this a victory," Darcy said.

His brother added under his breath, "Or a surrender." 

"What was that?" asked Miss Jones, turning her head quickly.

"Nothing, nothing at all," said Darcy, thankful for the muffling effect that her bonnet must have had. He hoped her friend's bonnet had done the same.

They each partook in a serving of cold plum pudding and drank more soda-water; Darcy's hopes that her friend had not heard were bolstered when the girl sang the praises of Byron's words while casting glances at Captain Darcy, though she probably would not have fully understood what Peter's 'surrender' comment had meant if she had. Before much longer they decided by mutual agreement that the picnic, as nice as it had been, should draw to a close. At the insistence of the gentlemen, the ladies stood aside while they gathered up the baskets and the blankets, then packed them back into the carriage.

"Mark," said Peter quietly at the side of the carriage, the smirk indicating something playful yet to come, "perhaps a quick jump in a nearby lake to cool your ardent blood before we leave?"

Darcy gave his brother a withering look that sent him backing up and laughing.

After assisting the ladies into the carriage, after Jamie took his own seat, they traversed the short distance back to The Gables before helping them out again. 

"Bonnet-related disasters this time avoided," said Darcy to Miss Jones as she stepped down.

She laughed lightly. "Thank you for saving my poor hat," she said. Turning slightly more serious, she said, "Thank you, actually, for making this such a lovely day. For helping me to forget… well, I need not remind you of what." Her smile was beautiful and gentle, and Darcy wished terribly he could take her by the hand and declare himself. That would be a mistake, interpreted as either done in sympathy, or an attempt to take advantage of weakness. Instead he tipped his head slightly.

"I will be in touch about riding."

"I look forward to hearing from you."

As they rode back to Grafton Manor, Darcy fully expected to get an earful about the attentions that had been paid him by the lovely Miss Reilly, but instead he asked, "Riding?"

"Peter," he said by way of answer, "are you free to accompany me to London within a day or two? I am finding a need to acquire some objects which I will have better luck locating in town."

"Such as?"

"Well, the harp."

"Ah yes, the harp," said Peter. "And I suppose this trip also ties into riding somehow."

"I will ask the stable master if we still have a lady's saddle," said Darcy, "but if we do not…" He trailed off, letting Peter draw his own conclusion.

Peter evidently drew the right one and chuckled again. "You are hopeless," he said. "Purchasing a harp and a saddle are unusual gifts for a courtship."

"This is not a courtship," he said, then added in concession, "at least it is not yet."

………

After dinner that night, the stable master reported that there was a side saddle present, but that it was old and damaged. Darcy could not recall ever seeing his mother on horseback, so disuse was likely to blame. He did not mind. He would rather have had something nice and new for Miss Jones to ride on, and in all honestly he thought of it as an investment for future possibilities.

The Darcy gentlemen struck out for London that following morning. He decided, and Peter agreed, that bringing the larger carriage was appropriate.

"It carried our trunks to Norfolk," joked Peter. "Cannot see any reason why we could not lash a crated musical instrument down to it."

"I was thinking more along the lines of having cover overhead in case of inclement weather."

Upon arrival to London, Darcy made no announcements to his society of his presence. The staff of the London house was surprised to see him—perhaps the post he had sent to advise them of his arrival had been misdirected or lost—but they quickly accommodated his needs. After a brief respite of luncheon, he and Peter left once more.

The shop to which he had been recommended, Ollanton's, looked like it had been there for centuries, and it quite possibly had. The man who greeted him must have been the proprietor; he certainly looked almost as old, with grey hair and a wizened but cheerful visage, dressed in clothing twenty years out of date. He approached with his hands folded behind his back, then bowed courteously at the waist. "Good sirs, how may I be of assistance?"

They bowed in return. "I am in need of a triple harp," Darcy said.

"Triple harp," Mr Ollanton replied, touching his fingers to his chin.

"Also called a Welsh harp," Darcy added.

"Yes, sir, I do know that," he said, grinning; he was all politeness but his tone carried a hint of schoolmaster authority. Darcy felt a bit chastened; of course the old man knew what a Welsh harp was. " _Telyn deires_ , natively. I do not have much call for such an instrument down here in London," he said wistfully. Darcy felt his hopes dash. "However, I do happen to have a very nice one, brought in from Llanrwst myself."

"Do you?" he asked; belatedly he realised his tone was a little too eager. He wondered if it was part of the fellow's sales technique.

"Indeed, sir; indeed." He stepped towards the back of the shop, gesturing with his hand. "Come with me, gentlemen. I will show it to you."

They went together until Ollanton halted, reached up towards a masked object and drew down the piece of fabric, revealing an instrument of great beauty: glossy walnut comprising the neck and body, a glistening triple row of strings, decorative carving along the sinuous top edge and an iron band shoring up the neck.

"I still cannot believe she can play such an object," mused Peter. "It is bigger than she is."

"This is for a young lady?" asked Mr Ollanton.

"No," Darcy said, as his brother answered emphatically,

"Yes."

Darcy then explained, "I am looking to buy an instrument for my drawing room."

"So that a particular young lady can play when she visits," said Peter.

"I understand," said Ollanton with a twinkle in his eye.

Darcy looked at the object with scrutiny, tried to imagine Miss Jones plucking the strings, her golden head bowed to the side; that haunting, shimmering sound filling the drawing room, the house… just as his love for her had filled his empty heart.

"I will take it."

Ollanton seemed a bit surprised at this decisive statement; after all, they had not at all discussed the instrument's cost. He nodded. "Very well, sir."

"I will need it to be delivered."

He nodded again. "That can be arranged."

"The address is not in town."

Ollanton smiled. "That can still be arranged."

With the purchase arrangement secured, Darcy gave the harp one last look before they left the store, the graceful curve of the neck, the shining wood surfaces. It was a perfect choice.

They left the store and headed to where the carriage was waiting. "It is a grand instrument, Mark," said Peter. "I look forward to hearing it played."

Darcy allowed a little smile. "As do I."

They next traversed London for slightly more familiar ground: the saddler's. It was a very quick visit. There was a small selection from which to choose, and Darcy procured one he thought would suit Miss Jones very well. Peter agreed.

"The embossed roses on the edge of the leather are a nice touch, Mark."

"I thought them suitable."

Peter paused to glance out of the carriage window. "What will she say," he began in an uncharacteristically measured voice, "when she sees that you have obviously purchased a saddle for her to use and a harp that is not of inconsequential price when no one but she plays? How will you answer that does not involve you confessing to your deep and abiding love?"

Darcy could tell that Peter was trying to be light-hearted in tone, but serious in intention. "I will be honest without revealing my true feelings, not because I am ashamed of them, but because I do not wish her to feel obliged to me," he said. "Her music would bring great pleasure to our mother on her frequent visits to Grafton Manor, and a harp is not very portable. The side saddle that we had was destroyed and needed to be replaced. There is no untruth in either."

"Hmm," said Peter thoughtfully in reply. "There is one thing that you have not considered."

"And what is that?"

"What if she guesses all the same?"

"She thinks of us as brothers, Peter," he reminded. "In all likelihood, if she considers these as a special favour to her, she will think of it as a brotherly one."

Peter said nothing more, but Darcy could tell he wanted to.

At Darcy's suggestion, they also stopped at the booksellers, ostensibly for some new volumes with which to surprise their mother; tomes of poetry and prose that strangely suited Miss Jones' taste as well. They then returned to the house for dinner, retired at an early hour for bed then early the next morning returned to Grafton Manor before Miss Glenville could catch the slightest whiff of his being in London. The harp and saddle, which he had arranged to be delivered together, would arrive in a week. Darcy wrote a brief letter to Miss Jones to advise that riding could not begin until that time, but that she should feel free to come and visit as was her habit and not worry about needing to give advance notice, as his mother would otherwise miss her company. She wrote back, her handwriting curved and fluid, to advise she would be most pleased to do so.

She came to visit on that Thursday swathed in a perfect shade of blue to make her eyes glow, all smiles and hugs for Lady Darcy, and polite curtseys (with a grin) for the Darcy gentlemen.

"Mark has brought me some new books," she said as they walked arm in arm to the drawing room, the gentlemen not far behind. "He made a trip to town."

She turned to look to Darcy, brows furrowed. "To London?"

He nodded. "I had a few errands to run," he said, then decided to partially explain: "Our side saddle was very badly damaged." He had specifically asked his family not to say anything about the harp. He treasured the thought of seeing the expression on her face when she saw it in person.

She smiled. "I imagine there are many very skilled saddlers in town from which to choose to repair such damage." He did not correct her misapprehension. "I would be happy to read for you, Lady Darcy."

"You do not mind, do you, if my brother and I stay?" asked Peter.

"Of course not," Miss Jones said. "Though I must secure your forgiveness in advance. I am not the greatest public speaker."

"Nothing public about it," said Lady Darcy. "You are practically amongst family."

The next couple of hours were spent in a most wonderful fashion; she read from the printed page, her voice clear, light and quite lovely. With regards to public speaking, Darcy thought she was wrong. If she noticed Darcy watching her read, her eyes moving across the print, lifting only to take the occasional sip from her glass, her fingers grasping the page to turn it, she did not show it.

She concluded at the end of a chapter, then placed the ribbon to hold the page for next time. "Very nicely done," said Lady Darcy. "It looks like you had a rapt audience."

She smiled demurely. "I am glad you all enjoyed it, and truly hope you do not mind my stopping," she said. "My throat is feeling a bit rough."

"No, do not apologise," said Darcy. "I feel quite honoured to have heard any at all."

She smiled again and lowered her lashes. "Thank you, sir."

"You are welcome to stay for dinner," said Lady Darcy. "After that I am sure the boys would be happy to see you home by carriage."

"Indeed we would," said Peter. "And until dinner is ready, I would like to have the opportunity to restore my good name at the billiards table."

She beamed a broad smile in his direction. "I would be pleased to give you such an opportunity," she said, her tone a bit teasing. She looked to Darcy. "And you as well."

They had four quick games of billiards; she lost two to Peter, but bested Darcy both times. He blamed his distraction on the obvious; his brother blamed it on Darcy's obvious need for more practise. When the maid came in to announce that dinner was about to be served, she could not hide her look of surprise at seeing a lady wielding a billiards cue, but she curtseyed and withdrew all the same.

When they emerged together from the billiards room they were surprised to see the skies had darkened and had cracked open with a terrible thunderstorm; the rain fell at a severe angle in impenetrable sheets beyond the pane of glass. "Oh dear," Miss Jones said.

"It may yet pass," said Darcy, though secretly hoped it would not.

The storm did not pass. If anything, it only increased in severity.

"We cannot possibly send you outside in this," said Lady Darcy thoughtfully after dinner. "Not even by carriage. I will have Molly make up a room for you, and you shall stay here. Your parents will know you are in good hands with us."

"I am much obliged, Lady Darcy."

The storm had brought with it a great chill to the air, so the fireplace was lit and they all sat to warm themselves before it. Not much time had passed before Peter tapped Darcy on the arm then pointed towards Miss Jones, who, resting on her folded elbow, was dozing. Darcy's heart leapt into his throat at the serenity of her countenance, the amber firelight casting a flickering glow over her.

"You know, Mark," said Lady Darcy quietly, "I have the oddest feeling there is something I am forgetting to tell you, but with everything that has happened I just cannot think of it."

"Well, if it is important, it shall come back to you."

She nodded, then too looked fondly at Miss Jones. "I already think of her as a daughter," she said. Darcy knew what she meant: she anticipated that some day he would make it official.

Miss Jones was roused (much to her embarrassment) and shown to her room. Darcy's thoughts stayed upon her close presence through his own nightly ablutions; they had both stayed in the same wing at the Alconburys' but now she was only in the room next to his, in his own room. He envied the linens, the bed, for their embrace of her, envied the draperies and the paintings for their ability to gaze upon her while she slept. He wondered with much self-chastisement how she looked in a simple sleeping shift; with even more self-chastisement he wondered what she might look like in nothing at all.

"This does me no good," he muttered to himself, turning over in bed, trying to think of something, _anything_ else. His mind had other ideas. Everything with which he tried to distract himself led back to thoughts of Bridget.

Did being in love always feel like a pleasantly discordant, willingly borne madness? He thought it must, because otherwise he might just truly be mad. _Just a little more time_ , he thought. _Then you can reveal yourself… and court her in the proper way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Remind me not, remind me not" was composed by Lord Byron on 13 August 1808, and published in 1809.


	9. In which there are welcome and unwelcome arrivals.

_Tuesday, 28 June_

His delivery arrived on schedule on Monday, so Darcy had sent word that he was ready to begin her training in riding that next day. Monday evening brought a note advising that she would arrive after breakfast. Darcy then had instructed the staff that when she arrived she should be shown to the drawing room, where he would be waiting for her.

Along with something else.

When he heard her arrive, his stomach twitched nervously in anticipation. He had tried in his mind to think of the words she would say, but upon her appearance at the threshold of the room, the one reaction he had not counted on was the one she had.

Complete and total speechlessness.

She had not even had a chance to remove her gloves or bonnet when she walked into the room; from its place of prominence near the window he had not believed there was a chance she would see anything else first, and he had been right. At first she blinked as if she could not believe what her eyes showed her; then, as she stepped nearer, her gloved hands came up and covered her mouth. When she got close enough, she pulled off her gloves and reached out to touch it, running her fingers over the sleek surface.

"Where did this come from?"

"London," he said. 

She looked at him, one eyebrow cocked. "Your trip last week?"

"Yes. I thought I might persuade you to take a break from reading and play for my mother."

Now she furrowed her brows. "You bought a Welsh harp on the chance I might want to play it?"

"No," he said with a smile. "I bought a Welsh harp on the chance you would feel guilty enough at my doing so to play it whilst you are here."

She stared at him a moment before she realised he was speaking in jest, and burst out with a laugh. "I thought I was imagining things," she said. "It really is very beautiful."

"I am glad you like it."

"I would be a fool not to," she said with a grin. "So was this a ruse to show me the harp?"

"Was what a ruse?"

"The promise of a ride?"

"Absolutely not a ruse. I trust you are wearing your best walking dress?"

She laughed, remembering the last time they went on horseback. "Actually, this is my new riding dress."

"Outstanding," he said, taking a moment to appreciate the outfit, simple yet lovely in fine tea-coloured wool. He then turned and reached for his hat, which sat on a small table beside him. "Shall we? Unless you would like to give the harp a try."

She shook her head. "I feel unprepared."

"But you will play sometime, I hope."

"I feel I must," she chided playfully, slipping her glove back on.

Together they walked to the stable, where one of the stable hands was saddling the mare. She looked scrupulously at the saddle; he thought she was probably inspecting it, trying to find the damage that had been allegedly repaired. She then turned to him. "You will be riding as well?"

He nodded.

The stable boy helped her up into the saddle as Darcy took his own mount, a chestnut stallion called Cosmo. Together they trotted out into the field. Darcy could tell his horse wanted to cut loose and run as he was usually allowed to do, but Darcy held the reins tightly and kept him under control.

They went over the basics first, techniques with which she already was familiar but had had no formal education. They walked side by side in great figure-eights; she seemed bashfully proud when she got it right, and unduly frustrated with herself when she did not.

"It is all right," he said gently. "You cannot expect to be an expert on the first go. I have been riding for many years."

She pouted. 

"What is it?" he asked, though he already knew, or at least he thought he did.

"I cannot say. You will think ill of me."

"I find that highly unlikely," he said. "Please."

She drew her lower lip between her teeth in an expression of indecision, but in the end revealed her thoughts. "I can tell that what you would really like most to do is just…" She paused. " _Ride_. But I am holding you back."

"Miss Jones," he said. "I do not think ill of you, but you must banish any such notion from your head that I would rather be elsewhere."

"Since you are a gentleman, sir," she said, "I shall have no choice but to take you at your word."

Miss Jones did not again voice doubts that her company was somehow a second choice, and with each lesson she became less tentative, a little bolder and more daring. They met every other day for a week, then every third day. She was a good student, but more importantly, while he loved spending the time with her, he got the distinct impression that she enjoyed their time together more than just for the education. This was borne out when they were not riding; picnics with their respective siblings and even Lady Darcy and the Joneses; carriage rides to nearby Kettering and Northampton for errands and just for the pleasure of seeing the countryside; hours spent in their drawing room with Miss Jones playing the harp for them, the smile lighting her face when she saw how much joy the music brought.

"You know," said Jamie after one such impromptu performance; he often accompanied his sister for her sake, not for Darcy's, "she really does not care to play."

"She is an excellent actress, then," Darcy said. "Why would she play so often for us, for _me_ , if she did not care to do so?"

Jamie raised a brow, waiting for Darcy to understand he had answered his own question.

"Because I enjoy it?" Darcy asked at last, feeling a little dumbfounded.

"Your mother enjoys it as well," he said, "but Bridget does not feel the need to make a comment about playing for _her_."

Darcy stared hard at the ground, his heart racing. It had been six weeks since the elopement attempt; surely the time was nearing to tell her of his feelings. His mother had hinted towards there being a ball; perhaps Lady Darcy, too, was partial to private information about Miss Jones. Perhaps the time was right for that second dance to be accepted.

………

_Thursday, 28 July_

Darcy had never seen his mother looking so sepulchral. His first thought was to wonder if something had happened to Miss Jones; to his immediate shame he knew he should have first thought of his own brother, particularly when he saw she held a letter in her hand.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I have just gotten word," she said, "that we are to have… _guests_. This must have been mislaid. They arrive on Monday."

"Who arrives on Monday?"

"Caroline Glenville," she said, "and her daughter."

He did not reply. He did not need to and he did not trust himself to speak, his anger was so great, not at his mother but at the woman who he was sure was behind this, Miss Natasha Glenville.

"I did not invite them," his mother added quickly. "Caroline wrote several weeks ago to offer to come to visit, which is, I am sure, what I meant to tell you. She spoke of how I must feel lonely and how she longs to see me, longs to see the countryside. I wrote an immediate response politely declining. I am enjoying having my sons to myself, taking great pleasure in your company too much, though I did not say that to her."

"You probably should have."

She agreed, though did not say so aloud. "I thought she could take 'no' for an answer." She held up the letter, held it at arm's length to better see the script. "'My dear Elaine,'" she read, "'I insist. We both insist. We shall arrive on the first.'" She lowered it. "I am sorry."

Lady Darcy was of course going to be a good hostess for her friend and for Miss Glenville, and Darcy thought she would in fact probably be pleased to see Mrs Glenville. That was not for what her apology had been offered. She had been referring instead to Darcy's plan for the following week, a plan he intended on carrying out during the ball next Saturday at the Grafton Underwood Assembly Hall.

"There is nothing to be done about it," said Darcy. "My plans are unchanged."

He heard footsteps approaching the drawing room and within moments Peter appeared at the threshold. Peter looked to Darcy, looked to Lady Darcy, then said, "Good grief. Has someone passed on?"

Darcy thanked God at that moment for his brother's presence; he smiled for the first time since his mother had told him the news. Darcy then conveyed what the letter said, watched Peter's expression turn to one of consternation.

"I almost should have preferred someone had passed on," he said in what Darcy hoped was in jest. 

Darcy surprised himself by saying, "Me too." 

Peter's look of astonishment at such a verbal lapse turned quickly into a grin, which caused them both to chuckle. 

The sobering voice of his mother chastising them to not say such awful things caused them to look to her; as if they were boys again they apologised in unison.

Peter proposed as they had their luncheon that his brother move his timetable up and begin his courtship of Miss Jones sooner rather than later, but Darcy declined. "There is a certain charm to the ball commencing a courtship."

"A certain… poetry?" asked Peter with a wink. He did not question that she would accept; Peter had expressed enough opinion on this matter.

Darcy had to admit there was, and that he had fully considered it in conceiving his plan.

"What about our plans?" Peter then asked.

The four of them, Darcy and Jones siblings together, had planned on a leisurely horse ride that afternoon. "I see no reason to change them," said Darcy.

"I mean for the duration. What will you say to Miss Jones about our impending guests?"

Darcy thought about it. "I will not mention that we have guests, because she will feel unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" After a moment's contemplation, Peter seemed to understand: with two more ladies in the house, Miss Jones would reason their mother would have no need for her female companionship; thus Miss Jones would not come to visit, and Darcy could not reap the benefits of that close relationship. Peter nodded.

"I do realise I will need to spend time with the Glenvilles out of courtesy, but I do not intend to allow their presence to interfere with our routines." After a pause, he added, "I feel guilty not only for not being completely honest with Miss Jones, but for feeling a little selfish."

"Mark," said Peter, clapping him on the shoulder. "I support you in this endeavour."

Over the next few days, there was much focus placed on getting the rooms ready for their visitors. They would be on the other side, in the other wing of the manor, with all of the amenities they could desire. _Miss Glenville will be far away_ , Darcy thought, then scolded himself for the unkind thought.

Miss Jones came on their last day of solitude, letting herself in as had become her habit and joining them in the drawing room; she found Lady Darcy holding a book at arm's length to read, Peter reading by the window, and Darcy writing a letter. If Miss Jones had noticed the continuing preparation she had said nothing, and his mother had made no reference. At her entrance Lady Darcy happily and with some relief set down the book. "I am very glad to see you, dear child," she said.

"And I you, as always," Miss Jones replied, as she leaned over to place a kiss on her godmother's cheek. "Lord Darcy, Captain Darcy," she added in the brothers' direction, then went directly to the harp. "I would like to beg forgiveness in advance."

Darcy's curiosity was piqued. "Why should you need it?"

She pulled a small stack of pages from her reticule. "Because I would like to try a song I do not know well, and it may well turn out to be an assault on your unsuspecting ears."

Darcy set his pen down, careful not to get ink on the letter to the head of his London staff. "New song?"

"Yes," she said. "Mozart."

He was flattered that she felt so comfortable playing for them that she would play a piece she was unfamiliar with. "We would be pleased," he said.

"You say that now," she said darkly. "You may well be running from the room in a matter of minutes clutching your bleeding ears."

Peter chuckled aloud. "I sincerely doubt that." Darcy agreed with his brother.

Miss Jones looked sceptical, but sat at the harp, arranging her skirt and placing her music on a stand that Darcy had previously brought down from the music room for her. At once he was to his feet. "Shall I turn pages for you?"

She gifted him with a smile that spoke of her surprise at his solicitousness. "I would like that very much."

He recognised the music as being from _The Marriage of Figaro_ , which he had seen performed in London not long ago. Miss Jones got off to a rocky start—while she played the harp, she never sang in accompaniment—but once she got into the piece she did very well indeed.

So well, in fact, that he nearly forgot to turn the page for her.

When she finished, they all burst into applause for her efforts. She blushed, stood and curtsied. "I fumbled through so much of it, though," she said. "Surely you noticed."

"I think Mr Mozart would be the only one to notice," said Peter.

"You are very kind, sir," she said. "Thank you."

"I apologise for not changing the page quickly enough," Darcy said at last.

"There is no need for apologies," she said, rising from her seat and striding towards her godmother. "Now I could not help but observe that you are reading something for which my own eyes may be better suited." She held out her hand, and Lady Darcy gave her the book, a new one Darcy had chosen for her in London, an anonymous work of fiction called _Waverley_.

"Thank you, my dear. This is one of the books Mark brought for me from London." She turned to her sons. "Mark, Peter, you may stay or go as you wish."

Peter glanced to his brother with a grin. Darcy suspected she was giving Peter a chance to leave, not that she thought he wanted to go, but giving Darcy the chance to be as alone with Miss Jones as he could. "I believe I shall attend to some business with my valet. Miss Jones, a delight as always." He stood, bowed then quit the room.

After Lady Darcy assured that Miss Jones had something to drink—reading aloud was tough on the voice—she embarked on the surprisingly good tale of Edward Waverley, into which the author had woven enough fact regarding political events in England and Scotland of the last half-century or so as to muddy the waters regarding how much was fiction and how much was fact. Darcy found it very intriguing, indeed.

At what must have been the end of a chapter, Miss Jones stopped and closed the book. "I fear I must stop for now, in order to return home in time for dinner."

If it were Darcy's choice, she would stay every day, but he knew she could not. A quick glance to the clock told him her brother would be along any moment to bring her home, and as predicted a knock was heard on the front door. The maid announced Jamie Jones just as he came in, smiling broadly. "Ready to go?"

"Let me just get my music."

After she packed the sheets back into her reticule, Darcy walked with her to the door. "We shall see you tomorrow afternoon, then?" he asked.

"For riding? Absolutely." She smiled as she fixed her bonnet's ribbons under her chin, slipped her gloves back on. "I have rather come to look forward to our riding sessions. And oh, I am particularly looking forward to the ball."

Darcy smiled and tried not to feel unduly optimistic about the upcoming ball, but he swore that her smile to him held more than fondness; there was a warmth that spoke of much more.

"Oh!" she said again. "I wonder if we could have another waltz!"

"Absolutely not," he scolded, which only made her laugh. This made him realise she was only teasing. In all honesty he would have really liked to waltz with her again and he knew this was what had caused him to snap back his answer. _Well_ , he thought in all optimism, _perhaps we can waltz when we marry. Surely society cannot deny a bride her wish…_

………

_Monday, 1 August_

"Elaine, my dear. It is so good to see you."

Darcy did not know Mrs Glenville that well, but he could easily see from whom her daughter had gotten her looks. As his mother clasped her friend's hands and declared the same, Darcy saw that the two bore a striking resemblance to one another; walnut hair, beetle-black eyes, thin lips perpetually pursed, it seemed to Darcy, in disapproval. Darcy knew Miss Glenville's eyes were upon him but he refrained from returning the gaze as long as was polite.

"Lord Darcy, sir," Miss Glenville said as she extended her still-gloved hands towards him, "it is just as good to see you."

"I am glad you had a safe journey," he said, bowing slightly at the waist. "You are arrived in time for luncheon. That is, of course, unless you would prefer to rest after the sojourn. Mrs Bosworth could show you to your rooms."

"Luncheon sounds wonderful," she said, dropping her hands as if she had never raised them. "I have missed speaking to you, missed _seeing_ you. You must tell me what you have been doing since last I saw you." As they moved towards the drawing room, as was always her habit in London society, Miss Glenville claimed his elbow. It would have been rude to push her off. To Darcy it seemed now that he was within her sights, she was not about to relinquish it. Perhaps the duration of their stay would be more difficult than he had imagined.

The first thing the visitors noticed upon entry was the newest addition to the room, the statuesque Welsh harp. "My word," said Mrs Glenville as she approached it. "Since when do you play the harp? This is an odd one; so many strings."

"I do not play," said Lady Darcy, taking her usual, favourite chair. "Mark purchased it in London."

"Darcy, you do not play either," said Miss Glenville. "To what purpose?"

"It is a triple harp from Wales," said Darcy, taking a seat on the sofa.

"Have you taken to purchasing such things for decoration?" As she sat at a discreet distance from Darcy on the same sofa, Miss Glenville had an odd little smile on her face. It may very well have been from genuine amusement, which did not keep her from pursuing her question.

"He purchased it for the pleasure of my hearing it," said Lady Darcy. "My goddaughter often visits and she plays beautifully."

"Perhaps we shall be so blessed as to hear," said Mrs Glenville.

"Goddaughter?" enquired Miss Glenville, raising one brow ever so slightly.

"Yes," Lady Darcy said. "Her family lives very near."

"Do we know this young lady, so accomplished on the harp?"

"Unlikely," said Lady Darcy. "She has not yet been introduced in society."

The brief expression of smug superiority that flashed across Miss Glenville's face was unmistakable.

Luncheon was announced and the subject of Miss Jones and her family was thus dropped. Darcy was fortunate to have the cold beef and bread; it enabled him to keep his participation in the conversation to a minimum.

When, near the end of the meal, Darcy heard the front door open and close, he thought nothing of it until the newcomer was already entering the dining room. It was Miss Jones, and she looked as surprised as he would have expected.

"Oh!" she said. She was dressed in her riding gear, prepared for another horseback session. "I am… I am sorry." She looked bewildered and embarrassed.

Lady Darcy spoke to make up for her son's silence. "This is the young lady about whom we were speaking earlier. Miss Jones, this is a very good friend of mine, Mrs Caroline Glenville, and her daughter, Miss Natasha Glenville. And this is my goddaughter, Miss Bridget Jones."

Mrs Glenville happily made Miss Jones' acquaintance. Darcy felt Miss Glenville's hand touch his sleeve. "A pleasure," Miss Glenville said flatly. "I understand you play the harp."

Miss Jones' confused expression was, Darcy realised, equally about the reference to the harp as it was to Miss Glenville's proximity to himself and her possessive manoeuvre. "Yes," she said. She looked to Darcy. "I did not realise you would have guests for luncheon. I should not have come."

"We are not here just for luncheon," Miss Glenville said. "We are here for the month."

Darcy stood abruptly, looking to Miss Jones; she appeared slightly lost. "Your riding instruction will continue unimpeded," he said. "I am finished with eating. You have arrived at just the right time."

"Are you… certain? I do not wish to intrude."

"Absolutely certain."

"I shall see you later, Lord Darcy," Miss Glenville called after him.

They walked to the stable, met the stable boy as usual, who went to saddling the mare. She was unusually quiet, maybe even a little upset. As they waited, Darcy hoped she might say something to indicate what was on her mind, but she stood in silence. Finally he said to her, "I should have mentioned we would be having guests, but I did not want you to think…." He trailed off. When he went over his prior reasoning in his head it sounded foolish. Instead he said, "I wanted to keep my commitments, not stray from my routine, and after all, they are my mother's guests, not mine."

"Commitments and routine," she repeated softly. "No, I understand completely." She looked up with what Darcy suspected was a false brightness, for which he felt terrible; he had not meant to hurt her feelings with the mere presence of the ladies. "I think Fiona's ready for me," she said, indicating the mare she had been in the habit of riding.

Once they were both on their respective horses, they began to gallop gently through the meadow. He flanked her with his own mount to continue his explanation. "Mrs Glenville wanted to ensure my mother was not too lonely, and though my mother demurred to a lengthy visit, we only discovered on Thursday the intent to arrive today."

"And what of Miss Glenville?" she asked, continuing to look forward. "She seems to know you very well."

"We have had an acquaintance for some time, particularly since I have started to go to London for the season," he replied. "Mr Glenville was a friend of my father's, a man who is himself a man of trade, so naturally his wife and my mother became friends as well."

"Naturally," she echoed. At that moment she made a motion with her foot and the horse trotted forward much more quickly. 

"Miss Jones!" he called to her, stepping up Cosmo's pace.

"How is my form?" she called back. "I would hate to look improper. Unduly embarrass myself in front of others."

Her riding form was excellent, and he was sure she knew it. He was suddenly equally sure that the comment had nothing to do with riding. "I should have given you notice."

"You are not required to give me notice," she reminded. "However, I would have preferred not to appear quite like such a savage in front of two ladies evidently of society, coming in without presentation and the like."

He spent a moment in silence thinking on the matter, and knew she was absolutely right. "I am sorry," he said in all humility.

Miss Jones turned to look at him at last, offering him a smile borne not of false brightness but of genuineness and sincerity. "All is forgiven, sir," she said solemnly; in that moment Darcy felt himself slide even more irretrievably in love with her. 

It was a very good lesson indeed, not that she needed much more in formal horse riding for her needs; for the latter portion of their time together they just allowed the horses to leisurely gallop through the meadows. At the conclusion, upon dismount he invited her to come in for refreshment.

"Jamie should be here at any time," she said, "and I am not fit for company."

"I insist," he said. "You must be thirsty, and it is very warm out here."

"Hmm," she said. "If you insist."

They strolled towards the house; once inside, Miss Jones removed her bonnet and gloves, and Darcy requested water with lemon be brought to the drawing room for their enjoyment. "Perhaps a few biscuits too," he added. 

As they came around into the foyer proper Darcy nearly burst into a laugh: his brother was clearly trying to be as surreptitious as possible in moving through the house. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I have been having a grand morning keeping to myself," he said. "Reading _Waverley_ in the library. Very good by the way, excellent purchase, though 'Anonymous,' my eye. If the author is _not_ Walter Scott I will eat my hat."

Darcy came up close to his brother. "If we must suffer, so must you."

Together the three of them went into the drawing room, where Miss Glenville had taken up a volume of Shakespeare's love sonnets and was reading them aloud, though devoid of any discernible passion in the inflection of her voice. She stopped upon noticing that the three of them had entered. 

"Peter! There you are!" Lady Darcy smiled up to him, though Darcy knew her tone masked a reprimand. "Caroline, Natasha, you remember Peter, of course."

" _Captain_ Darcy," said Mrs Glenville. "Your father would be so proud." Peter nodded gratefully.

"Of course I remember you, sir," said Miss Glenville. As the second son, however, Darcy knew she had never given him more than a fleeting thought. She had always had her sights set higher.

One of the servants came in then with a tray bearing a pitcher of water, some drinking glasses and the promised snack, setting it upon the low table there. The ladies already present were well-provided with their drinks. Miss Glenville was on the sofa, and Miss Jones took a seat beside her, smiling cordially; nothing like the smile with which Darcy had often been graced, he noted. The gentlemen took additional seats near the table and Darcy poured the glasses.

"Thank you, sir," said Miss Jones, accepting the first as well as a little pastry biscuit.

He poured some for his brother, as well, although his brother had not been astride a horse that day.

"We have heard such nice things about you from your godmother, Miss Jones," said Miss Glenville. "We would love to hear more."

Miss Jones looked pleased and flattered to receive attention from her; he considered she had little to no contact with women from London society, and the difference between the highly coiffed Miss Glenville (with her satin and feathered hat) and Miss Jones (with her blond hair carefully pinned for placement under her riding bonnet) could not be more striking.

"Well," she said. "I had my schooling at Miss Bangor's School for Girls. I do a bit of embroidery and… writing."

"Languages?"

"A little French, and poorly," she said with her usual air of self-deprecation.

"Oh," said Miss Glenville, a hint of not only disappointment but superiority in her voice; he knew she spoke French and German fluently. "Pianoforte?"

She shook her head. "I play the harp, as you have heard."

"Oh, yes, the Welsh harp in the room is yours."

Miss Jones tinted pink. "You are mistaken," she said. "It is Lord Darcy's, purchased for his mother."

"For his mother Lady Darcy's pleasure," Miss Glenville said, casting an affectionate glance her way. "He does not play, and if I am not mistaken she does not either."

"I might play," said Peter.

Miss Glenville and Miss Jones both laughed, but where Miss Jones' was in amusement at the ludicrous notion of Peter playing the harp, Miss Glenville's was dismissive. "Since you are the only one who can play, it is in essence yours. That is to say," she added, "the only one besides myself who plays." 

"You play the triple harp?" she asked in astonishment.

"I play the harp, and once or twice I have performed on a harp that large," Miss Glenville, "though I much prefer either the smaller harp or better still, the pianoforte. It is, in my opinion, a far superior instrument." 

Miss Jones looked to her glass of lemon water. 

"Still, you _must_ play for us, Miss Jones," continued Miss Glenville. "I am certain there is no finer player in all of Grafton Underwood."

"Indeed there is not," said Lady Darcy.

"Not today, I beg you," she said. "My hands are still somewhat fatigued from holding the reins." Her features brightened, and she asked in all sincerity, "Perhaps you will play instead?"

"Oh, yes, horse riding," said Miss Glenville, ignoring the request. "Lord Darcy is instructing you, I understand? I am sure he is the very best you could want at any age. How fortunate he can spare the time."

Darcy was coming to see that Miss Glenville meant to belittle Miss Jones with every supposed compliment. "I feel very fortunate indeed." As if realising the lateness of the hour, Miss Jones set her water glass down. "My brother will be arriving at any moment to collect me. It would behove me to meet him when he does."

"Bridget, my dear," said Lady Darcy, "please convey to your parents and your brother that you should all come and dine with us tomorrow. This way we shall have the pleasure of hearing both of you fine ladies play."

Miss Jones seemed delighted by the prospect. "Perhaps then, Miss Glenville, you will play us something new from town that we here have not yet heard."

Miss Glenville's lip curled into a smile. "Yes, I would be pleased to do so."

Miss Jones rose from her seat; Darcy and Peter both rose likewise. "We shall escort you to the door," said Darcy.

Miss Jones fought a smile of her own. "We must be ever vigilant against those bears." This made Darcy smile as well; Peter only looked confused.

As if perfectly timed, Jamie approached with the small carriage just as they descended the front porch. "We shall see you tomorrow, Miss Jones," said Darcy.

"I look forward to it."

When they came back into the house they could both hear Miss Glenville speaking, evidently attempting to hold court with her elders. "She seems a sweet girl," said Miss Glenville. "It is unfortunate she has not had the benefit of exposure to society. She might have thoroughly enchanted the gentlemen left and right." Her mother made a sound of agreement. His own mother said nothing, for she likely perceived it as the insult it was.

"I do not like that woman," muttered Peter. "Now I know precisely whose tidings of untimely demise I should have liked to have received." Darcy said nothing, merely strode into the room. Upon seeing him, Miss Glenville smiled in her calculatedly coy way.

"Safely on her way?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Glad to hear we will not need to worry thus. Please, come and sit and we can talk of the latest news from town."

It was an oblique invitation for him to join her on the sofa. Instead he walked to the window in order to gaze out upon the landscape. He should have realised it was no escape from her attentions. She proceeded to inform him on the events that had transpired since he had gone to the country; he heard more detail than he cared regarding the plays and operas she had seen, the parties she had attended and the announced engagements of several mutual acquaintances. He thought it was no accident that she would mention the latter. She was not exactly renowned for her subtlety in that regard.

"Mark," called Peter, "I should like your opinion on a matter of great import."

Darcy turned to where his brother was standing at attention befitting an important matter. "Miss Glenville. If you will pardon me."

"Of course."

He followed Peter out of the room and directly into the billiards room. Peter closed the door behind them.

"We are sure to be undisturbed here."

"Very well. About what did you need my opinion?"

"Nothing," he said. "You looked liked you needed to escape."

At this Darcy laughed aloud. He knew no sound would escape the room so he was not worried the ladies would hear. "Come, let us have a game while we plot the reason for your taking me away from Miss Glenville's fascinating discourse."

It was decided that the matter of importance involved his naval career; it was sufficiently believable that a naval captain might want to discuss things with a confidant such as a brother, that he might not wish to do amongst general acquaintances. It was a good, spirited game, almost enough to make him forget what awaited him at dinner.

Dinner that evening took Darcy back to that disagreeable time at King's Lynn spent avoiding the attention of young ladies seeking to land a husband. Miss Glenville stayed within the boundaries of propriety, but made her intention all too clear. He thought it only a matter of time before she struck out at Miss Jones as a possible impediment to her goal. He was right.

"It is an enlightenment to me," said Miss Glenville as they had dessert, "that country manners are so different from what I have always known in town."

Darcy knew better than to ask what she meant, but Lady Darcy asked anyway.

"Well, that young ladies are free to wander around unescorted, enter houses unannounced, and have their betters giving them instruction in the most elementary of skills."

Lady Darcy chuckled lightly, then offered her a smile that Darcy knew to be calculated, even protective. "If you refer to Miss Jones," she said, "that is a special situation. Bridget has a standing invitation to see me whenever she likes and needs no prior permission."

Darcy enjoyed watching Miss Glenville grovel and trying to back out of the insinuation; it would not do to get on the wrong side of the woman she hoped would be as her own mother. "Oh, I meant nothing by it," she said. "If that is a special situation, then of course it should be viewed as such, and not as widespread practise. My apologies."

Lady Darcy nodded; all was forgiven, but, Darcy suspected, not forgotten. Darcy also knew it would not be the last such dig at a perceived rival; the notion amused him greatly, as in his own mind, there was no rivalry. Miss Glenville did not compare.

After the guests retired for the evening, Darcy was moved to have a private word with his mother. "Oh, it is unkind of me to say," Lady Darcy lamented, "but I wish Caroline had been able to leave her daughter in town. My only consolation is that at least the girl did not read her first choice to us."

"Which was what?"

"Fordyce's Sermons."

Darcy could not stifle the groan at the very thought.

"She is after you, Mark," said his mother. "Take care."

"You have nothing to worry about," he assured.

"Take care all the same."


	10. In which an attempt is made.

_Tuesday, 2 August_

The following day was a bit easier to bear, as Darcy knew that the Joneses would be arriving in time for dinner. He and Peter made excuses to ride the perimeter of their property; to his relief, Miss Glenville had not brought a dress suitable for riding horseback. They went in a slow trot, which got them back in time for dinner preparation. For once Darcy was thankful for the country's tradition of early dinner.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Glenville, Miss Glenville," said Mr Jones upon his family's arrival to the house and the subsequent introduction of same. "You have met my daughter, I believe," he said, then proceeded to introduce his wife and son.

"Charmed," said Mrs Glenville, and it sounded sincere enough. Darcy vowed to not allow Miss Jones to occupy all of his attention in the hopes that Miss Glenville's attention would also be diverted as well, though he soon realised it would be a difficult task; she once again wore a pale blue dress, one he had seen before that was simple in cut and form, and that echoed the shade of her eyes, also placing her silver necklace beautifully on display.

"That is a lovely dress, Miss Jones," said Miss Glenville, with enough sincerity to be believable to the casual observer. "Lord Darcy, is it not a lovely dress?"

He decided, in the spirit of his vow, that he would downplay his opinions regarding Miss Jones and her attire. Despite wishing to proclaim it a stunning success on her, instead he said coolly, "It is quite nice."

"The colour really favours you," Miss Glenville said generously.

Mrs Bosworth came into the drawing room just then to announce that dinner was to be served. "Let us walk together," Miss Glenville said, taking his arm with prodigious speed. "Miss Jones has her brother, so I may claim you."

Darcy resisted the urge to turn to see Miss Jones' expression. He was sure she was disappointed not to continue their tradition of avoiding Napoleon's agents together. He certainly was.

Dinner conversation was dominated by Mrs Jones and Mrs Glenville, who, to Darcy's ear, seemed to be two peas in a pod on one level, and rival mother hens on another. Much like Miss Glenville had done with the dress, Mrs Glenville laid praise on Miss Jones and even Mrs Jones herself in such a way that deftly hid her backhanded insults.

"Such freshness and innocence to your daughter, Mrs Jones," said Mrs Glenville. "I did not spend much time with her yesterday but she certainly seems to say what she thinks and does what she likes. That must be so… liberating." The emphasis on that final word spelled out to Darcy her true message: that Miss Jones was unrefined and uncontrolled.

Mrs Jones, however, missed this message and merely smiled proudly. Darcy hated every moment of it.

Miss Jones had been relegated to her brother's side when Miss Glenville took the seat next to him and opposite to Peter as he took the head of the table as was his right. From his position he could see Miss Jones quite well though tried not to make himself too obvious. She was very quiet; she had very little to contribute.

Until Miss Glenville mentioned post-dinner diversions.

"Miss Jones, I thought of a piece to play," said Miss Glenville brightly. 

"A piece?" said Miss Jones.

"Why yes," said Miss Glenville. "Yesterday you expressed an interest in my playing, as well as wanting to hear something new from town, though I suppose it may have since made it to Grafton Underwood. I do not have the music with me but I know it well enough." She cast a look towards Darcy. "I believe Lord Darcy wished to hear me play as well."

"I wished to hear you both play," he said.

"Which piece?" asked Miss Jones.

"I would prefer it to be a surprise," Miss Glenville said coyly.

"I understand," said Miss Jones. After a moment, she added, "I shall yield the floor to Miss Glenville this evening for our entertainment."

"Oh, Bridget dear, please reconsider," said Lady Darcy.

"I must insist on allowing your guest, a lady of far greater talent than my own, her audience," she said deferentially.

Miss Glenville smiled smugly. "You are too kind, Miss Jones."

The men stayed behind for a spot of port and to smoke their pipes. Peter pulled his brother aside once the ladies were safely away to the drawing room. "You must not wait," he said to Darcy. "You must take action."

"Of what are you speaking?"

"Miss Glenville wishes you for her own," said Peter.

"I am quite aware of this."

"You must make a formal offer to Miss Jones if that is still your desire, and you must do it sooner rather than later."

"Why would it not be my desire?"

Peter looked exasperated. "You are as thick as a plank sometimes. Miss Glenville will drive away anyone who may be a threat to her goal with more of her syrupy sweet-covered poison if necessary. And I think she perceives Miss Jones as a threat."

He was starting to see Peter's point of view. It would not matter if Miss Jones was his first choice if Miss Glenville continued to put herself forward as Darcy's intended. "I cannot do so tonight."

"Why not?"

"It would be most improper."

Peter ran his hand over his face. "Then when?"

"Riding on Thursday."

"Very well, if you insist on torturing yourself more than you need to." Peter took a deep draw from his cheroot. "I am going to need more of these very, very soon," he lamented.

The first thing Darcy saw when they entered the drawing room again was Miss Glenville standing and running her fingers over the curves of the Welsh harp. Darcy felt a tightness invade his stomach, as if her touch, her very propinquity, sullied the instrument in some way.

She turned her dark eyes towards him and smiled victoriously. "Ah, there you are. I was just preparing to play."

"We shall just take a seat."

As the men found their chairs, Miss Glenville took the stool by the harp and arranged her skirts around her. When she was satisfied all eyes were upon her, she smiled, straightened her back, then placed her fingers over the harp strings.

After a few false starts, which she attributed to her lack of familiarity with the triple-stringed harp, she began to play in earnest; Darcy realised instantly that he knew the tune. It was Beethoven's _Für Elise_ , fairly recent in the composer's portfolio of works but not so new that Grafton Underwood's denizens had never heard it. It was familiar enough to him that he recognised when she hit an off-note, and the rest of it, more or less correct in tune, was performed so mechanically and soullessly that she might have been some kind of automated musical device plucking at the strings rather than a human being.

When she finished, she brought her hands away and bowed her head to the expected applause, offered more out of politeness than appreciation, save for her own biased mother, whose enthusiasm was noticeable.

"Oh, I quite like Beethoven," came Miss Jones' voice; he swore he heard a new life imbued in her tone that had not been present earlier. 

"So you are familiar with the song," said Miss Glenville. "I should have guessed I could not surprise you."

"I am very familiar with his work," Miss Jones said, "though I much prefer his sonatas."

"Oh?" Miss Glenville asked, as if being requested to accept a challenge. "Would you care to share with us, after all, one of your beloved sonatas?"

She raised a brow, lifted the edge of her mouth in a subtle smile that spoke volumes to Darcy. "I believe I shall, if it is acceptable that I have changed my mind."

"No, please, I insist." The self-satisfied tone told Darcy that Miss Glenville believed Miss Jones would embarrass herself in front of her family and family friends. Darcy knew better.

Miss Jones took the stool in front of her harp—and he did think of it as her harp, despite his earlier words—straightened her own dress, then raised her hands and began to play. He knew this tune of Beethoven's as well, the _Moonlight Sonata_ , and she played it expertly with nary a missed note. She played with great passion and vigour, tugging at his heart with every swell and dip, with every chord struck; the emotion of it brought tears to his eyes. Finally, as she reached the end of the piece she drew her hands away, looking directly to the audience, then settling on him with that same small smile.

After a moment of silence all of those present burst out into raucous applause. "Oh, Bridget, you have outdone yourself," cried his mother, her cheeks wet with emotion. Discreetly he touched his fingers to his eye, said nothing at all, though in his heart he agreed with his mother. He had never heard her play so well, and he had to attribute it to the time spent playing for his mother and for him.

Miss Glenville merely looked stunned that she had been upstaged. She should have taken it gracefully, conceded that perhaps Miss Jones' talent on the harp exceeded her own, but she could not leave well enough alone. "That was well done," she said coolly, moving to stand near Darcy. "I suppose it is to your advantage that you have had more practice on that instrument. If I had my own harp, my own pianoforte…" She trailed off, nose in the air.

Where Miss Glenville had no tact or grace, however, Miss Jones had it in spades. "Thank you. Coming from a lady of your accomplishment, that means a lot to me."

Darcy was so moved by the music and by her composure in the face of such rudeness that he was tempted to request of her father a private audience with Miss Jones at that very moment, but it was not to be. "My dear, you have done us proud," Mr Jones said, rising from his seat in the chair. "It was very nice to make your acquaintance, Mrs Glenville, Miss Glenville, but we must unfortunately return home."

Mrs Jones looked a bit surprised, but stood at her husband's words and offered a smile. "Indeed," she said. "Very fine meal, Elaine. Come Bridget, get your hat and gloves, and your reticule if you brought it."

"Yes, Mama," Miss Jones said quietly. To the Glenvilles, she said, "Nice to see you again." They smiled and nodded their heads deferentially.

Jamie, who had been as silent as a spirit the entire night, came up to Darcy on his way out. "You can count on me," he said, "if you still wish me to be counted on."

"Yes," said Darcy quickly, though not completely sure of his meaning. Before he could ask for an explanation, Jamie nodded and departed with his family.

He turned back into the drawing room and got himself something more to drink. He did not wish to engage with anyone for conversation; he preferred instead to consider the day after next, when he was slated to see Miss Jones again for horse riding, and when he would take the unconventional approach of asking to court her whilst they rode.

It was Miss Glenville's voice that drew him from his reverie.

"It is very much a pity," she said with that authority with which she made all declarations, "when the colouring determined at one's birth is no longer considered fashionable."

"To what do you refer?" Darcy asked brusquely.

"Why, Lord Darcy, to the fairness of hair and eyes with which, say, Miss Jones is encumbered," she said with an expression of innocence. "It is all the rage to be brunette, as that ties in with things of material importance in the world, and not flights of fancy or idealism so associated with a blonde."

Her words set him to a near state of fury, but he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing she had riled him so. Instead he merely gave her a pursed-lip smile. "The preferences of some gentlemen are not so easily turned by the whims or declarations of popular fashion," he said. "It is the lady's character on which I base my preference, not the shade of her hair."

"That offers me great reassurance."

He had had quite enough of her subtle jellyfish-like stings. "I am not sure it should," he said, "as my preference is, by your reckoning, for a lady of unfashionable colouring."

To this Miss Glenville had no immediate response; she had the sense to not allow her mouth to hang open too long. Darcy swore he heard his brother clap his hands. However, she then allowed a knowing smile. "Lord Darcy, you are allowed your preference, of course," she said. "You have been left to your devices alone in the country, so maybe you forget who you are and what your place is in society… but in the end you will remember what you owe yourself and your family."

Lady Darcy looked like she wanted to speak up, but he did first.

"I would gently remind you, Miss Glenville, that I was born and raised in the country, like my father before me, and his before him. The country is from where the most noble of birth in your revered society come. I believe, Miss Glenville, that you and your more newly fortuned family has lived in London your whole life?"

She said nothing.

"Yes. I thought as much," he said. "Now, if you will pardon me, I would take counsel with my brother on matters of importance."

Peter took his cue and got to his feet. "Yes. Let us retire to your study."

With almost military precision the two filed from the room and directly into not Darcy's study, but into the billiards room.

"My God, she is insufferable," Peter said. "I thought you were brilliant, Mark, absolutely brilliant, but you may have made a major tactical error."

"What?"

"You have tipped your hand," Peter said with gravitas. "You have admitted your preference for Miss Jones. You can bet she will come on even stronger than before, and will grovel to kiss your feet in order to win your affection."

With great reluctance he admitted Peter was probably right. Any other woman would have admitted defeat and stepped back with her head held high. "She is like an errant puppy one must smack on the nose again and again in the hopes she will learn her lesson… but she never does."

"That is not true," said Peter. "She is more like an annoying flea."

He felt lighter already, though knew he would have to brace himself for the next day. With a great heave of breath he admitted to his brother his intention for the next riding lesson. At this news Peter's eyes widened and he grinned.

"Why not just go down there tomorrow, have a word with Mr Jones? He is not likely to deny you."

"Because—" Darcy stopped suddenly; he had no good reason not to. He grinned. "Excellent point, brother."

Darcy retired early and woke early, if it could be said that he slept at all. Gillies was surely perplexed by the greater care than usual he gave to his attire. He ate some bread and cheese before departing for the stable. Within minutes Cosmo was carrying him towards The Gables, his heart racing as quickly as the horse's hooves. As he approached he slowed down until he was at a respectable trot.

"Good morning, Lord Darcy," said a maid gathering herbs in the garden at his approach; he thought her name was Patricia, but he could not be certain.

"Good morning, miss. I realise this is unexpected, my visit."

"I am sorry, sir," she said, "the family is not at home."

"Oh," he said. "For the day?"

"Yes, I believe so, sir. An errand in Kettering, is what they said."

"Thank you, miss. Please inform… Miss Jones that she is most anticipated tomorrow for a lesson as usual." He bowed his head in courtesy, trying not to let his disappointment get the better of him as he rode away.

He encountered his brother first as he returned to the house. "You are returned so soon," Peter said in his surprise.

"They are not at home."

"Ah. I am sorry."

"No matter," Darcy said. "I shall proceed as planned tomorrow."

With strength in numbers, he and his brother went to the drawing room together to find his mother and the Glenville ladies already present. Miss Glenville rose as he entered and strode rapidly towards him. "Lord Darcy," she said quietly. "I would like a brief word, if it is not too much trouble."

"What can I do for you?"

"I would like to offer my sincere apology," she said with great contrition. "I stepped too far out of line last night, speaking not only out of turn as your guest, but unkindly about someone very dear to your family."

It was just as Peter predicted. He waited for more.

"She is very talented, Miss Jones," she said. "I think I was perhaps envious of her performance, and in turn I treated her with unfair harshness. Please sir, see fit to forgive me."

He looked to Lady Darcy. "Has my mother granted you such forgiveness?"

"Yes," said Miss Glenville as his mother nodded once. 

He turned his gaze back to the lady before him. He had to wonder how much of what she said was sincere, but Miss Glenville would never have his heart whether she was forgiven or not. He did not care to hold a grudge. "I shall grant you the same."

She smiled meekly. "Thank you, sir. You are very kind."

It did not take her long to try working her finesse on him. As their luncheon concluded she proposed a walk.

"You and me," she said then added almost too hastily, "and of course Captain Darcy. Perhaps we could also invite Miss Jones and her brother as well."

"Judging from the morning, I feel it is too warm for a walk," he said, not wishing to admit he knew that the Jones clan was not at home.

"Yes, yes, of course," she said. "Perhaps we can stay in the north of the house. We can play cards, or I can read to you and to our mothers."

"A generous offer," he said, "but I would prefer to read my own book."

"What are you reading?" she asked. 

" _Waverley_ ," offered his brother.

He was grateful for Peter's quick-wittedness. 

They retreated to the library, which was indeed cool, and he began to read from the point where Miss Jones had last left off and found himself quickly engrossed. When he got to a stopping point at the end of a chapter he looked up to see a couple of hours had passed, saw Miss Glenville poring over Fordyce's works again. 

"I should have suggested you were reading Byron and truly scandalised her," whispered Peter from over his shoulder. Darcy had to stop himself from laughing aloud. 

For the remainder of the day Miss Glenville was remarkably meek, though given that it was still so soon after being granted forgiveness it did not surprise him at all. Dinner was a peaceful blessing, for which he was grateful, as he could think of nothing but the next day.

Unable to sleep that night, Darcy found himself requesting warmed milk as if he were a boy. It did help him to drift to sleep, though he did then awaken much later in the morning than usual.

"My goodness, Mark," said Lady Darcy as he emerged for riding just prior to luncheon. "Are you unwell?"

"I am quite well, thank you," he said.

"Did you have trouble sleeping?" asked Peter. Darcy wanted to kick him under the table.

"A little," he said; there was no denying what could easily be verified via the late night staff. "I am well now."

"Are you intending on a day outside?" asked Miss Glenville, who sat with her embroidery, looking up from it only as she spoke.

"I intend on—" he began, then stopped; he did not wish to draw attention to his instructing Miss Jones on horseback. "Yes," he went on, "I shall be spending time outside."

"Oh, perhaps we can make a day of it!" she said brightly; he could not tell if it was said in innocence, or suspected another riding lesson with a woman she thought of as rival. "Captain Darcy, does that not sound grand?"

"I would prefer to stay indoors," said Peter. "I had thought you might read to us some more from Shakespeare." Bless his brother's soul, thought Darcy; he was willing to undertake something Darcy knew he found abhorrent to allow Darcy his chance.

It did not surprise Darcy at all that such flattery overrode her desire to stick to his side like glue. "Oh, I would be most pleased," she said, "though I should like to read from Fordyce instead."

Darcy would owe his whole family a debt of gratitude.

He decided to await her arrival outside of the front of the house; within a few minutes of his departure from the room he saw the Jones family coach ambling down the drive. He straightened his hat, smoothed down his jacket, and stood up straight, not moving until the open air coach came to a full stop.

"Good afternoon," called Jamie from his seat beside his sister, who was focused on her knee and seemed exceedingly sullen. "You almost had a free day. She almost did not want to come."

"Are you unwell?" Darcy asked, reminded of the same question asked of him all too recently.

She nodded, then looked up at last. "I am well, thanks," she said. He wondered what had made her want to stay at home, then realised it was probably for the very reason he had been reluctant to tell her about the Glenvilles' visit.

"Go on, then," coaxed Jamie. "Your horse no doubt awaits."

Darcy helped her down, and thanked Jones for bringing her over as he did. Once the coach departed, together they strode towards the stable. He did not wish to begin the conversation he hoped to have only to be interrupted by the stable boy, so they walked in silence.

Once they were atop their horses, however, she proved very difficult a person with which to converse. She took his instructions—short and to the point—well enough, but she seemed to deftly be avoiding being close enough to initiate his query.

It was not until they were riding back towards the stable, on horseback, side by side, that he spoke up at last.

"Miss Jones," he said. "There is something about which I have been meaning to speak with you."

She did not respond, and in fact was so silent he wondered if she had heard him at all. He repeated himself, only getting as far as her name, when she said, "I did hear you, sir," she said, staying focused directly ahead of herself, which was a little unnerving. She then offered a smile, one that quivered along the edges. "You do not have to speak to me about anything at all, need offer me no explanation, nor do you owe me one," she continued, still looking forward.

"Lord Darcy!"

This, a new female voice, called out from the direction of the stable, and Darcy turned his gaze at last; there stood not only Molly the maid, but Miss Glenville.

Darcy felt as if his stomach had been plunged into ice; his chance was slipping away. He looked back to Miss Jones, wishing to get out quickly what he wanted to say, but only got as far as saying her name again before she said in a papery voice, "I wish you nothing but joy and good health."

The mare headed to the stable without direction from her. The stable boy assisted her down as he dismounted his own stallion, but by the time he had put his soles to the ground she was already leaving the stable.

"I believe my brother has returned for me," she called, again not looking to him, purposefully striding until she reached the drive. The Jones family carriage indeed sat by the door. She turned and met his eye at last. "Good day, sir; good day, Miss Glenville."

As the coach departed, kicking up dust in its wake, Miss Glenville was the first to speak with her usual candour. "Poor dear looks devastated. Did she have a fall?"

Darcy realised Miss Glenville was right, though he would never give her the satisfaction of knowing; Miss Jones had looked devastated. He had no idea why.

She claimed his elbow as they walked the short distance to the house. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice until they were already inside. His brother stood waiting in the foyer as she released Darcy from his services as escort; Peter's expression barely concealed his confusion.

"Brother, a word?" Peter asked, indicating Darcy accompany him. They walked together to what Darcy had begun to think of as their war room, the billiards room, and Peter closed the door.

"I am sorry," Peter said almost immediately, "for not keeping rein on the wayward Miss Glenville…. Whatever happened out there? Surely Miss Jones did not turn you down."

"I did not get a chance to ask," he said. "She anticipated me, but incorrectly, and bade me not to speak. Exactly what her misapprehension was, I cannot know."

Peter's look went from confused to amused. "Mark, I think the answer is as plain as day."

"And that is?"

"Miss Jones has developed feelings beyond those sisterly ones expressed at one time, and is jealous of Miss Glenville."

Darcy snorted in derision. "That is untrue. She only dislikes Miss Glenville's company, and I cannot fault her for that opinion. It is also impossible that she could believe I am interested in a woman like Miss Glenville."

"Love is not rational." Peter pursed his lips with an expression of dubiousness. "What precisely did she say to you?"

Darcy cast his thoughts back to the moment. "That I need not speak or offer explanation. That one was not owed her."

"Explanation?" asked Peter.

"I know not what of," he said. "And she also wished me joy and good health."

At this Peter laughed aloud. "You are definitely thick as a plank," he said. "The girl obviously thinks you are betrothed to Miss Glenville!"

"Utter nonsense," said Darcy. 

With this the matter was dropped and they played a few games of billiards before dinner. The next few days were spent taking care of tedious but necessary tasks, for which Darcy was grateful; it kept him constructively occupied, and though Miss Glenville desired by default to stay close by his side, some of what he did was so boring to her—tending to expected farm yields and food storage inventories with the steward—that even she could not be enticed to hang on in the way she would have preferred. 

Despite Darcy's declaration that it was utter nonsense, Peter's observation regarding Miss Jones' behaviour lodged in his mind; such a seed planted into a mind as fertile as Darcy's could not help but germinate, even if he was not cognisant of it doing so.


	11. In which a second dance is requested.

_Saturday, 6 August_

"We are not attending together, Miss Glenville and I," insisted Darcy to his brother as he observed himself in the looking glass, smoothing down the fabric of his waistcoat. "We happen to all be arriving at the same time, that is all. She is making far too much of it." He glanced to the side and saw his brother, in full naval regalia, smirking.

"She has said nothing, but you know how she thinks," Peter replied. Darcy looked up to meet his brother's eyes via the mirror. "I am only saying what others will think when you arrive and she is hanging on your arm."

He turned away to face Peter. "You must take care, then, to ensure she is not."

"There is only so much I can do," he replied, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "I am only one man."

Darcy grinned at last, indicating his attire. "A man with the might of the British Navy behind him."

"I have my doubts even that would suffice," he lamented.

Since they were due to depart for the assembly hall momentarily, the brothers descended to the foyer; it had been already decided to take the larger landau for protection against the chill once the sun set.

As the carriage rumbled down the road towards the hall, Darcy could not say he was not a bit nervous. He disliked balls and other such functions as a general rule, as it often forced him to be more socially engaging than he ordinarily was, a charge he found exhausting, as was the dancing required by convention. The anticipation of this particular assembly was even more trying so than most, due to his expectation of seeing Miss Jones and of the question he hoped to ask her.

Peter did an admirable job of trying to keep himself wedged between his brother and Miss Glenville, but she was able to evade him and managed to clasp Darcy's elbow as they entered the main hall. He did not need to look at her to know she was smugly smiling as would a cat that had caught a canary. He disentangled himself from her grasp almost immediately but in a way he hoped did not hurt her feelings. His eyes scanned the crowd looking for Miss Jones but as yet he did not see her; he had to think they had simply not arrived because the shade of her hair was usually very easy to spot.

The musicians appeared to be playing tunes for the enjoyment of the crowd only; the dancing had not yet begun. He hoped to find Miss Jones before that occurred. He wanted to have the first dance with her, but the movement indicating the first dance was about to commence coupled with a comment by Mrs Glenville all but assured his wish was not to be granted.

"I am so looking forward to seeing my dear daughter dance with your son; they look so handsome together," said Mrs Glenville to Lady Darcy.

There was nothing to be done about it; Darcy seemed all but obliged, as their host, to ask Miss Glenville. With a smile he hoped did not seem too forced, he turned to her and asked if she might like to dance. She smiled in a way that did not adequately hide her glee. "I would be very honoured, sir."

His mind was anything but in the dance as they lined up then began to move. To his fortune he knew the dance well enough that he was able to weather a slight preoccupation. When he actually spied Miss Jones, however, it was also to his fortune that he had not been presently in motion. He might have otherwise had a most embarrassing fall.

Her tailored dress was a pearly shade of white, with a wide scooping neckline so popular currently; a beautiful column of winding vine embroidery went from the empire waist down to the bottom hem, which bore a similar decoration. Her hair, golden and gleaming, was up and curled prettily, a satin ribbon of pale rose about her head; despite the styling it was not overly fussy or artificial, much like the woman who wore it. He saw no ostentatious decoration on her ears or around her throat, only the simple silver chain with its sinuous heart of Spanish provenance resting just under where her collarbones met.

She looked absolutely, radiantly beautiful, made more so by her being unaware of the very fact. He felt as if he stared at her for far too long, but he realised it was only a moment which was all too soon over; as she turned her eyes to him, the music dictated he look away in order to further the dance, pairing him with Miss Glenville once more. When he had opportunity to look to her again, her faraway expression spoke of not just of disappointment, but of something more; sadness, perhaps, or even a slight anger. 

And then he realised the truth of what he was seeing. Her drawn brows, her slightly pouted pink lips, the glossiness of her eyes… they all spoke to him of jealousy, and as he thought it, Peter's edict sounded loudly in the theatre of his mind.

When the dance was done, he bowed and took his leave, hastening away, thinking that he would, under no circumstance, have a second dance with Miss Natasha Glenville. His gaze flitted over the crowd; Miss Jones was not where she had been and he did not see to where she had gone. He did, however, find himself face to face with Mr Jones, whose expression bore a striking resemblance to his daughter's.

Darcy bent at the waist deferentially. "Mr Jones," he said. "It is good to see you."

After a pause, Mr Jones bowed in return. "Good to see you too, Lord Darcy," he said with reticence; something might have been bothering him but he was not about to let that get in the way of proper manners. 

"I thought I saw your daughter, sir," said Darcy, his eyes still scanning the crowd. "Might you know where she is?"

"I believe she is kept in the company of her brother, Miss Smith and Miss Reilly," he said. After a hesitation, he continued stiffly, "I understand we may be hearing some good news at the ball tonight."

Darcy blinked. His manner was very like how it had been before they had settled their differences, gruff and slightly standoffish. "I am not sure I understand."

"To do with your guests from London, one in particular." He leaned in. "Allow me to offer my best wishes in advance of the announcement, sir."

With icy dread he realised that Miss Jones indeed believed, as Peter had also predicted, that he was to wed Miss Glenville, and had informed her father thus. "There is no such announcement, sir," Darcy responded, then said, meeting the man's gaze and holding it, "unless it is one to which you wish to give _your_ blessing."

To Mr Jones' credit it only took him a few moments to grasp Darcy's meaning, and when he did he looked like a thousand words wanted to come out of his mouth but none did. Darcy decided to anticipate him.

"I walked in with Miss Glenville at her beckoning and danced with her out of courtesy to my mother's houseguest," Darcy said. To make himself plainer still he said, "It is a falsehood to say I have an attachment to or indeed warm feelings for Miss Glenville. There is only one lady for whom that stands true."

A slow smile spread over Mr Jones face. "Sir, you are a gentleman, and as such I must take you at your word," he said genially; the turnaround of his temperament was astounding to witness. "Have you had refreshment? I believe my children might be found in the other room. Would not be surprised at all to find them huddled around with cups of negus and biscuits." 

Together the men walked towards the side room where such refreshments would be found. Immediately Darcy saw her, and she, him. She quickly looked away. Mr Jones smiled, and when his eyes connected with his son's, he nodded before he left.

Darcy strode up and bowed to the ladies; the Miss Smith that had been mentioned had evidently stepped away. "Miss Reilly, Jones…" Jamie Jones seemed momentarily confused until he put his father's actions together with Darcy's presence; only then he seemed to understand. "…Miss Jones." Darcy then looked to her, willed her to look at him, which she did but only with great hesitation.

"Lord Darcy," she said in a small voice.

"I wondered if you would do me the honour of the next dance."

"While I am most flattered that you ask me and aware of the great honour in your doing so," she said, "I must decline."

"Sister," said Jones. "Do not be so hasty."

"Bridget," whispered Miss Reilly nearly simultaneously, "do not be _mad_."

Miss Jones, clearly conflicted, looked to her side, then down. "All right, sir," she said at last, extending one of her hands towards him; the long, elegant glove went past her elbow, matched in fabric and in embellishment to her gown. "I accept."

He reached out and took it.

They approached the other dancers and stood in formation. Darcy fervently wished that the band would temporarily lose their minds and start to play a waltz; unfortunately they did not, much to his regret, and they bobbed and weaved through the multiple-partner dance.

"Miss Jones," he said when they came close again, "I would ask to have a word with you after the dance concludes."

"I do not know what you might wish to say—"

"Miss Jones," he said again with emphasis. "You do not need to work out why I wish to speak to you. I only ask that you allow me the opportunity."

She agreed, though from her expression it seemed evident she believed he was going to lay out his plans to her to marry another. "Yes, sir," she said.

He allowed a small smile. "You also do not have to behave as if I am going to turn you over to Napoleon's agents." He had hoped to elicit a smile from her. Instead it had the opposite effect; tears filled her eyes and she turned away.

They moved apart once more and all too soon the dance ended. She curtseyed then walked away. He could only follow her to the location of her choice, feeling both nervous and a sense of impending relief. He would say what he wanted to say and then all would be well, or at least he so fervently hoped.

A figure by the door, however, changed his direction.

Miss Jones saw him as well. Gasping, she stopped so suddenly Darcy nearly walked into her. For his part, Darcy grew so angry so quickly that he could only say one thing:

"Cleaver."

The man in question turned to meet Darcy's gaze, but not before a quick, appreciative look was given to Miss Jones. Darcy stepped around and in front of her protectively.

"What are you doing here?" Darcy demanded.

"I am free, am I not, to attend a country ball in a public assembly hall?"

"To what purpose?"

Cleaver seemed more amused than anything. "To have a pleasant evening and dance with beautiful ladies…" He paused, looking to Darcy's side. "Miss Jones, would you care to dance?"

"I believe when last we parted," said Darcy angrily, "I gave you a pretty clear warning."

"You told me that I should not appear at a very specific house in King's Lynn, which I have not done. I did not know Miss Jones was here until just now."

"It is a small village," said Darcy, "and you are too clever not to know she was likely to be here."

Cleaver shrugged, grinning rakishly. "I missed her. I am only a man. What can I say?"

Darcy strode forward until he was within arm's length of Cleaver. "You will leave the assembly hall," he said in a low tone. "Outside. Five minutes. In the thoroughfare."

Cleaver's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Are you challenging me?" he asked in disbelief.

As he pulled out his pocket watch to note the time, he said, "I told you that I would."

At this he laughed, then asked, clearly still making light of the situation, "Should I bring my duelling pistols or my sword?"

He thought of his brother, who had his scabbard on hand. "Sword, and a second if you can find someone willing to stand up for you."

"Sir, I beg you, do not do this."

He turned to Miss Jones, who had issued this whispered plea, and who was directly behind him. Her face was streaked with tears. "Miss Jones, if not me, then your father will, and though he is a good man, I can say with a high amount of certainty that I am better with a sword."

All colour drained from her face. 

Darcy turned back to Cleaver. "Outside. Five minutes."

"Give me more time—"

"You should have expected this," said Darcy. "I will make no allowance."

With that Darcy walked away, trying to keep his composure; he knew instinctively that Miss Jones was behind him. "Go to your father," he said. "Stay with him. Stay away. I have this well in hand." He did not look back to see whether she had complied but when he reached his brother she was gone.

Discretion was key; no one could know of the elopement attempt or Miss Jones would be ruined. Accordingly Darcy kept his voice low as he explained that Cleaver had appeared. He had barely gotten the story out when Peter said, "I will be your second."

"Good," Darcy replied. "I require the use of your sword."

Five minutes was an unusually short amount of preparation time for a duel, the thoroughfare an unusually public location, but Darcy wanted satisfaction now. He and his brother headed out of doors and around the corner to the main thoroughfare through town; due to the ball the street was deserted. More time must have passed than he thought while he had been within the assembly hall, because the sky was already darkening with twilight and the street lamps had already been lit. Darcy fished out his pocket watch, which told him the five minute mark was fast approaching, and no sign of Cleaver yet.

"Bridget, I command you to get back inside!"

This, the voice of Mr Jones drawing ever nearer, countered by:

"Father, make them stop!"

Miss Jones herself had come, after all.

"If Lord Darcy withdraws I will take his place," said Mr Jones hotly. "Go inside. This is no place for a lady."

"I shall not sit idly by," she said with equal ferocity.

"Miss Jones, abide your father's wishes, and mine," said Darcy. "If there is blood drawn I do not wish you to be present."

"I shall not sit idly by," she said again, emphasising each word.

"Darcy, stand down," said another voice. He saw it was Jamie Jones. "I insist upon taking your place for my father."

"I will not stand down," insisted Darcy.

"All right, Darcy, let us be done with this nonsense."

Cleaver had appeared at long last, bearing a sword that did not compare to Peter's; by his side was another man, probably the friend with whom he had been visiting when Miss Jones had first met him. Slightly rotund with spectacles, Darcy was not acquainted with the gentleman.

"I would demand an apology," said Darcy, "but I do not believe you think you have done anything wrong; thus, it would be a futile request." 

"I shall not apologise for being in love," said Cleaver.

Keeping his temper in check, Darcy turned to Peter. "Inspect that sword, and have that gentleman inspect yours. Then decide to what end we duel."

Peter and the other gentleman inspected the swords in turn, then conversed briefly as the opponents divested themselves of their jackets. Darcy waited for their decision and when it came, Darcy did admit to a slight disappointment.

"Duel to first blood."

Darcy took the sword and held it firm. Cleaver did the same. Peter stayed close to Darcy's side, as the gentleman unknown to Darcy did for Cleaver.

"No!" shouted Miss Jones. "Captain Darcy, Mr Fitzherbert, what are you doing?"

"Ensuring that this is done with honour."

"Are you not supposed to make them stop?" she asked.

"Indeed they are not," supplied Darcy.

With a flash of steel their blades collided for the first time. The small crowd gasped. Another flash and parry, and Cleaver was stumbling back.

"Yield," said Darcy, retaining the upper hand as they clashed.

"I will not," he said. "I do not regret falling in love."

"Then why such haste?" Darcy hissed. "Why circumvent custom, estrange her from a family who loves her dearly?"

"A man in love does not think rationally," said Cleaver, fending off each thrust and swing with more skill than Darcy could recall the man having. Perhaps it had not been his first duel of honour.

"A man in love indeed," Darcy scoffed. The men came up close to one another, their swords both trembling with the exertion to push one another off. "I think what you wanted had nothing to do with love."

"My intentions were honest," Cleaver said, now becoming visibly angry. "That no one believes me is not my fault."

"You are learnéd enough to know that no one ever believed the boy who cried wolf."

"To the detriment of the sheep," said Cleaver.

"And the boy, too, if I recall correctly," said Darcy.

"And what is it to you what I do, anyway?" Cleaver went on. "What do you know about being—"

At that moment, Cleaver froze; no further words came, no further effort to ward off the sword. Darcy, without thinking, took advantage of the moment and slashed his blade, slicing neatly through the shirt sleeve and into Cleaver's shoulder. It was a flesh wound, a mere scratch, but it satisfied the terms of the duel.

There was blood on Darcy's sword.

Cleaver looked from Darcy, then over to Miss Jones. Darcy looked as well. She had her hands to her face, hiding everything but her eyes. No one said a word until Cleaver spoke, and when he did it was as if all of the wind had gone out of his sails. "I suppose I must concede." 

Darcy nodded, then said, "I think that is for the best."

Cleaver looked to Darcy again. "Before I leave, may I speak to you briefly, gentleman to gentleman?"

He saw no reason to refuse. He looked to Miss Jones; he could not quite discern her mood, but she did not seem pleased. Her father took her by the shoulders and directed her away and towards the assembly hall along with the others. Peter and Mr Fitzherbert remained by unspoken agreement (and at a discreet distance) still holding the duellists' jackets.

"About what did you wish to talk? You should get that tended to," said Darcy.

"I realise that," he said, his hand clamped over the site of the cut, red seeping to the fabric just beyond his palm. His expression was serious. "Darcy. Are you in love with Br—with Miss Jones?"

"You are speaking in absurdities," he said, too quickly and too vehemently.

Cleaver nodded slightly. "You are. You may deny it with words, but your actions say it all. Why else should you care to defend her honour?" Darcy said nothing. Cleaver offered a wan smile. "I thought as much," he said. "Well. I shall not intrude," he said sadly. "I will leave her in peace and not cause her any further distress. She deserves a happiness I am incapable of providing. I hope you will at least try." He stood up a little bit straighter, wiped the tinge of blood on his right hand onto the front of his shirt, then held that hand out. "Let us part on peaceful terms."

A bit surprised, Darcy reached out and accepted it; something about his tone, this gesture, convinced him that perhaps Cleaver's feelings for Miss Jones had in fact been authentic.

Mr Fitzherbert slipped Cleaver's jacket about his shoulders, and with that the two of them walked towards what Darcy supposed was Mr Fitzherbert's domicile. Darcy turned to Peter, who looked stunned.

"This may well be the strangest night of my life," Peter said, and Darcy supposed that was saying something given the man was a sea captain.

Upon returning to the assembly hall, Mr Jones came upon Darcy almost immediately. 

"Sir," Darcy asked discreetly. "Your daughter. How does she fare?"

"Jamie has taken her to a private room here to recover from seeing… what she saw. I was just on my way to her, and I hope you will do me the honour of accompanying me." 

Darcy smiled. Finally it seemed the comedy of errors was coming to an end.

Mr Jones rapped lightly on the door. A voice called, "Who is it?" It was Jamie's.

"Your father," said the man.

"Come in." It was Miss Jones' voice.

They entered the room which was adorned with a few chairs and a small decorative table; Miss Jones, occupying one of those chairs, looked visibly startled that her father was not alone. "Jamie," said Mr Jones. "Come away with me."

He did not question his father with words, only with furrowed brows, but he also did not object. "Yes, sir." He stood and together they left, closing the door most of the way. Darcy suspected that they would remain just outside.

"Miss Jones, I did not get a chance to speak with you. If we may yet still, I would be most appreciative," he began. "Please, there is no need to stand."

"I have no intention of standing."

"Very well," he said, standing very straight, then striding close to her. At his closer proximity he noticed that she was upset, perhaps even angry. "Miss Jones—" He stopped short when her foot connected quite acutely with his shin. He bent down to his knee in pain, restraining himself from crying out. With clenched teeth, he asked, "For what purpose did you kick me?"

"Because of the worry you caused me!" she said hotly. "I did not ask you to challenge Mr Cleaver to a duel."

"I am a man of my word," he said as he rose; no major damage had been incurred, though the injured shin throbbed in pain. "I hold to my promises as well as threats."

She stood, stomping her foot down, clearly escalated in her annoyance. He was quick to step back for the sake of his feet. "Oh you do, do you? What right had you to defend my honour? I did nothing wrong, besides! How dare you nearly get yourself lacerated, gored—or worse, _killed_ —all for my stupid honour, all for _nothing!_ " She stopped. "Why are you grinning? This is not diverting in the least!"

"Oh, but it is," he said, broad smile in place. "It is proof of something I had only suspected, and now I can ask freely what I meant to ask of you earlier."

She put her fists on her hips. "And that is what?"

Darcy had thought when the moment came he would give her a grand speech, but now that it was upon him, he merely blurted:

"To marry me. I am enamoured of you and wish you to be my wife."

He knew it was no small task to render her speechless, but if there were ever something that would do it, if a Welsh harp was not to be involved, it might well as have been this question. Her hands dropped to her sides. When she did speak after several tense moments, it was not quite what he was expecting to hear.

"Are you mad?" she asked. "Me as your wife?"

"Yes," he affirmed.

"You think of me as only a sister!"

"I know very well how I think of you," he said. "It is far more than that."

She seemed truly stunned. "You sought me out only to keep yourself safe from the husband-hunting ladies."

"There you are with that word 'only' again, Miss Jones," he said. "I did seek you out for that reason, but I also grew very fond of you." After a pause, he added, "I fell in love with you."

She turned slightly to the side. "I am not suitable," she said quietly.

"I think I should be the judge of that."

"You have Miss Glenville."

"I do not," he assured.

"So you are not engaged to her?"

"I would hardly be making you an offer if I were, Miss Jones," he said. As an afterthought, he said, " _Bridget_."

She slumped to sit on the chair, looking up to him from that even lower vantage point. "Me as your wife," she murmured.

"That is my intent, yes," he said.

She looked down, her eyes searching back and forth. He was beginning to feel quite anxious that she would refuse. When he saw tears slide down her cheeks and drop wetness onto her pale gloves, he really thought he was done for.

But then she said something that made his heart leap.

She looked up. Despite tear-stained cheeks, a smile lit upon her face.

"Oh, _Mark_ ," she said. He blinked the sound of her saying his given name; he was too stunned to immediately realise its import. 

"You…" he began, then trailed off. He did not dare assume it was an acceptance.

Then she spoke again. "Nothing would make me happier."

He did not recall dropping to a crouch, but in a moment he had done so, and had her gloved hands in his, releasing one only long enough to dry her cheeks. "Truly?" 

She nodded, her curls moving slightly as she did. "I did not think I had a chance. I had not realised how wrong I had been until it was too late."

"It was not too late."

She laughed, sniffling. "I know that now." She met his eyes. "I thought I must have been mistaken thinking you felt something for me, reasoned you danced with me to save me from Miss Enderby, that I was a refuge from the hunt because you had a wife already in mind."

"I had," said Darcy. His gaze was unblinking, his silence was telling; his choice of wife was merely not the one she had thought it to be. Her eyes widened as she realised his meaning.

"Even then?"

"I suspected by the end of our time at the Alconburys," he said, "and our time together back here only reinforced it." He tightened his grasp. "I had unimaginable freedom to spend time with you, more than most gentlemen could, thanks to my mother, for which I will be ever grateful."

"Oh, your mother!"

"Approves."

"What about my—oh!" she said, looking suddenly forlorn. "My father."

"Also approves. As does my brother and yours." 

She smiled, then laughed. "Conspirators," she said, then added, "My mother, however, will not hear of it." He knew then she was back in her usual good spirits.

Darcy released her hands and rose to his feet, offering a hand to her to help her stand. After she did, she claimed his other one again; they stood there, holding hands, gazes locked, not saying anything for many long moments.

"I suppose it is all right, then," she said quietly, with the hint of a smile on her lips, "if we were to share a kiss."

Darcy was of two minds on this. Now that the engagement had been secured, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her… but was afraid that the anticipation would render his self-control to tatters, and he would ruin his reputation as a gentleman in one fell swoop.

However, the decision was taken from his hands when she lifted herself up onto her toes, grasping his hands tightly to steady herself as she did, then placed her lips to his for a light, sweet, chaste kiss. When she drew away, sinking back to stand on her feet (her slight sway did not escape him), her cheeks and lips had gone pink, her eyes were luminous and her expression was playful.

"Yes," she said. "I could get quite used to that."

He was not proud of the thought that raced through his mind about hieing off to Gretna Green to marry as soon as possible—he would unquestionably have consent, after all—but he quashed it just as quickly. He was going to do this properly and as patiently as possible. "I suppose we should join the ball again," he said quietly. "I would announce our happy news to everyone as soon as possible."

"To some more than others," she said.

His heart filled with a renewed burst of love, and he laughed. "Yes."

He stepped away to the door and pushed it open. As he suspected, the Jones men were still there; Mr Jones raised his brows in silent query. Darcy nodded a silent answer. Both men looked thrilled beyond words.

To Jamie he asked, "If you would be so good to get your mother and mine, so that we may inform them prior to the general announcement…" he asked.

"And Captain Darcy?"

Darcy chuckled; indeed he was preoccupied. "Yes, my brother too. Sir, you may join us inside."

Mr Jones smiled genially. "I shall be pleased to wait out here."

He closed the door, thankful that her father was such a generous man. Darcy then turned back to look into the room, then held his hand out to beckon her to him. She came up to his side but instead of taking his hand she interpreted it as an offer for an embrace, which she accepted, getting up on her toes again and putting her arms around him. He reciprocated, folding her against him.

Her hair was as soft as silk against his chin, and it seemed to him that his hands could span the entirety of her back. "Bridget," he said again softly, loving the feel of her name zinging on his tongue, grateful, content and pleased beyond measure that he had been granted the honour of using it.

She tightened her arms around him, and the scent of her perfume, powder or whatever it was pleasantly filled his nose and his senses. She softly chuckled and murmured a quiet word of thanks.

"What for?" he asked.

"You said I smell nice," she advised. "You, on the other hand, smell as if you have been fighting. Not that it is unpleasant."

It was a tease—this much he could tell from her voice—and it made him laugh aloud. "Bridget, my darling," he said, "I do dearly hope for a short engagement." 

"If anyone knows the availability of the local vicar," she said, "it will be my mother."

He drew back and gave her another brief kiss before a quiet rapping on the door split them from their embrace. Darcy drew the door open to allow them in. The three not already informed of the fact of an engagement, upon spying the two of them in there alone together, appeared to quickly draw a conclusion, but allowed Darcy to speak.

"Mrs Jones, Mother, Peter," Darcy said deferentially, "she has consented to be my wife." 

Their reactions were dignified—only Mrs Jones allowed herself to clap her hands in her delight—but Darcy knew that all of them were ecstatic as they congratulated the happy couple. Handshakes and embraces alike were exchanged. Peter naturally could not help but murmur to his brother that he had been right from the start, and when Darcy recalled Peter announcing the Jones' arrival at King's Lynn, he nearly began to laugh.

"It must be announced tonight, here at the ball," said Mrs Jones. "I shall call upon the vicar directly, as tomorrow is Sunday. With your permission, of course, sir," she added in haste.

"Yes, of course," Darcy said. Casting his eyes towards Miss Jones— _Bridget_ , he thought; it would take getting used to—he continued, "I would wish to bring my bride to London upon leaving for town for the season."

Mr Jones looked dismayed. His daughter seemed as if the idea of living in London had not yet occurred to her, and she looked extremely excited by the prospect.

"It will be a whole new world for you, my dearest girl," said Mr Jones, walking to take her hand and squeeze it. "I will certainly miss you, but you will be very, very happy together." Mr Jones looked to Darcy. "I know you will care well for my little girl," he said; the man was pleased but Darcy knew there was something to his speech that he did not say aloud, which suggested Darcy would be sorry if he did not.

"You can trust me to do so, sir," said Darcy.

"I will miss you as well," said Lady Darcy wistfully. "But the trade is that I can call you daughter, among other small details." She looked to Darcy.

"And now I may call you 'Peter'," said Bridget to the captain. "I like that very much indeed." 

Judging from Peter's expression, he liked it as well, confirmed when he said, "I have always wanted a little sister to play billiards with. I hope Jamie does not resent the usurpation."

"I daresay he will enjoy having brothers at last," she responded.

After a few more moments they departed from the private room, Darcy with his new fiancée proudly on his arm; she looked equally proud and happy. The musicians were just winding down a lively number, and he led her towards them.

At the end of the number Darcy stepped forward to speak to one of the musicians, then returned to stand by his bride-to-be. He stood to his full height and began to speak. "Good people of Grafton Underwood," he said, "since I feel I am among friends, I wish to share some very happy news."

Within a moment he had the attention of all assembled.

"I have just been made the most fortunate man in the world," he went on, "by having my offer of marriage accepted by Miss Bridget Jones." He turned to her and held out his hand, which she took with a smile. At this a loud burst of applause sounded up, punctuated only by a short cry then the sound of gasps; when Darcy found the source of the commotion, he saw that Miss Glenville had fallen into the arms of a startled nearby gentleman in an apparent faint. He had no doubt she was engaging in a bit of drama, and that those closer to her could render any aid she might have needed.

"Shall we play a special tune for you for the happy news, sir?" asked the violinist.

"Oh!" said Bridget. "May we have a waltz?"

"That is still not proper," cautioned Darcy, even as he remembered his earlier thought.

The resultant expression on her face—softened eyes, slightly pouting lips—did not bode well for a lifetime of marriage with her. Indeed, he was already well under her power, helpless against the simplest of requests from her. 

"A waltz," he repeated, then looked to the musicians. "Do you know one?"

"Aye, sir," said the same violinist. 

He looked back to her. She was smiling. He then looked to the crowd. "The lady would like a waltz," he said.

No one objected.

The band started up; he took her in his arms, and as the music played, the two of them moved around the floor as if they had been dancing together all of their lives. She beamed a smile up to him and he beamed one right back to her. When they concluded, Darcy realised no one else had joined them in their dance. Everyone began applauding again.

"You know what a second dance means," she whispered from beside him.

"That I prefer you over all others," he said. He took her hand and squeezed it. "This is not news to anyone, I think."

She laughed—pure music to his ears—then squeezed his hand.


	12. In which anticipation abounds.

_Sunday, 7 August_

Darcy had never danced so much in his life, and the manner of his walking the next day bore the truth of it, not helped by the duel nor the kick to his shin. He dressed the following morning, his head still filled with thoughts of the night before, half-convincing himself he had dreamt the whole thing. Upon seeing his brother's grin as he headed down to partake of the morning meal, he knew he had not.

"I have just had some interesting—what is the matter?" Peter asked, interrupting himself as he saw Darcy favouring his leg.

"My legs are a little sore, one more than the other."

"Because of the duel?"

Darcy grinned. "In a manner of speaking. Not during the duel but after." Peter brought his brows together. "Miss—I mean, Bridget kicked me."

"She… kicked you?" asked Peter. "Why did she kick you?"

"She was angry because I had worried her," explained Darcy, "duelling senselessly for, and I quote, her 'stupid honour'."

Peter laughed. "Oh, marriage with her shall never be dull," he said.

"I dearly hope you are right."

"And I dearly hope I am so lucky." They walked together; Darcy asked about what Peter had been about to say on their meeting just then. "It would seem that Mrs Glenville and her daughter suddenly have urgent business back in town and are preparing to leave within the day."

Darcy was not at all surprised, and said so. "I can guess as to the nature of that 'urgent business'," he said.

"Well, no point in trying to pursue a man who has chosen another."

Darcy said confidentially, "I suppose there is always _you_ , Peter."

Peter looked horrified. "Perish the thought."

"My dear sons," said Lady Darcy, drinking a cup of tea. "What are your plans for the day?" Darcy smiled, answering his mother's query without speaking. "All right, Peter, what will _you_ be doing?"

Darcy did not hear Peter's answer. He thought again only the previous night, of Bridget's acceptance, and of the day's planned visit; he thought of his certainty that Mrs Jones would get the banns announced for the first time that very day; he thought too of how long three more weeks would seem, and simultaneously how short, with preparations to arrange, invitations to send—

"—a dress half as beautiful as the one she wore last night…" said Lady Darcy, interrupting Darcy's thoughts just in time to trail off. Darcy smiled. He knew precisely of what his mother spoke.

"She could wear that same dress and I would be well pleased."

The two of them laughed aloud. "It is as if you have special gift for knowing exactly when we are talking about your Bridget," said Peter.

_My Bridget_ , he thought.

As they spoke the Glenville ladies took a meal in their rooms, then announced they were ready to leave just afterwards without much fanfare. The Darcys saw them off as good hosts do. Upon their departure, Miss Glenville even had a pleasant expression and words of congratulations for Darcy's engagement. He took her gloved hand in his and thanked her with all sincerity, even if her own words had not been sincere themselves.

"I suppose we cannot always help with whom we fall in love," she said, her tone and intention hovering somewhere between wistful and disparaging.

"I wish you the same sort of happiness I have found," he said, opting to interpret her words in the more pleasant light.

Once gone, Darcy turned his thoughts to more enjoyable things: his visit with Bridget. He was to ride over to The Gables and spend time with her there, which would also allow her parents to see him and talk to him as well.

Radiant in a pale yellow dress, she met him at the door with a smile and outstretched hands, which he took in his own. He reached forward and placed a kiss on her lips; if they lingered a little too long she did not complain.

"Good afternoon, Lord Darcy," she said with a smirk.

"Miss Jones," he said, then grinned.

"I thought we might take a stroll," she said. "It is a rather pleasant day and Jamie has already agreed to accompany us."

It was a terrific idea; in a few moments, after she donned a straw bonnet and gloves, they were off, Bridget with her arm linked through Darcy's, Jamie just a few paces behind them. They walked along the drive and into the park surrounding their home; once they were alone amongst the towering trees, though not so far that the house was not still in sight, Jamie said to them, "I would not mind stopping for a little rest." He went to sit beneath a tree that appeared to be a favourite resting spot of his. "Do not stray too far," he said with mock-seriousness as he laid back in the grass, raising his arms above his head to rest his head upon his hands.

"Fret not; we shall stay close," she said. Darcy was aware of his second meaning even if she was not.

Within moments Jamie closed his eyes. Darcy, uncertain as to what to do, turned to Bridget. "Shall we… rest as well?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I would like that very much."

She was much more familiar with her father's property than Darcy was, and thus led him to a tree not far from where Jamie reposed. It had a broad trunk and a soft grassy patch just beside it. "This is a good place, I think," she said.

He agreed. He lowered himself to sit upon the grass, doffing his hat; she sat beside him, looked to him with a sweet smile.

"Would it offend you, sir, if I removed my own hat and gloves? I feel a bit like a horse with blinkers on." She turned her head to demonstrate that she could not see him unless she was facing him, then made a little whinnying sound.

He chuckled. "The only thing that might offend me is if you persist on calling your fiancé 'sir'," he teased.

She smiled, then tugged on the ribbon bound under her chin in order to loosen it. As she went to pull it up, the woven straw became caught on one of her hairpins, and despite her efforts she could not get it disentangled. "If you would be so kind as to help me," she said, then added, "Mark."

He leaned and worked the errant hairpin out of the hat, which had the effect of loosening a long lock of hair from her coiffure. "Oh dear," she said, hastily twisting it back then holding her hand out for the pin to put it back in place.

"Allow me."

He had no experience whatsoever pinning up a lady's hair, but he reached forward and put the pin into the place it seemed likeliest to need to go. 

"Thank you. I think it is now secure."

His fingers lingered still on her hair, and he drew them away. "My apologies."

"Oh, I do not think an apology is warranted."

When he reached forward again, it was to bring his fingers to her face; tenderly he stroked her cheek, eliciting a smile from her as she closed her eyes. He cupped her face in his hand, running his thumb along her skin until she opened her eyes again.

"May I kiss you?" he asked, his voice rough to his own ears.

"I do not have any objection," she said quietly, then lifted her chin to receive the offered kiss.

Even as he leaned forward and prepared to place his lips upon hers, he knew he was in grave danger; the silence save for the sound of the wind in the trees, and no one around except for her permissive, slumbering brother, meant that his control would be harder than ever to maintain, although he knew he would. As he touched his lips to hers, his hand slid around to cradle her head in his hand. One kiss became two, which became four, then eight, then more.

He broke away, his breath coming with great difficulty. He looked away from her.

"What is it?" she asked, bringing her own hand up to his face to caress it gently. "Is there something wrong?"

He placed his hand over hers. "There is nothing wrong," he said, "save for skirting the boundaries of propriety."

"You have kissed your fiancée," she said gently. "There is nothing improper in that."

He met her eyes at last, and in a sense it was his undoing. Mesmerised by her, he leaned in to kiss her again and again. In a moment she was even closer to him than before, her arm up and around his shoulder.

They remained light little kisses, though still quite pleasurable and satisfactory for the level of intimacy they could allow themselves until they wed. As he placed his lips on the corner of her mouth, something changed in a small but significant way; she drew herself closer still, enough that she was pressed against him, turned to receive his kiss with greater comfort, threaded tentative fingers into his hair. The feel of them spurred him to kiss her on the corner of her mouth again, then her cheek, then her jaw—

In an instant he pulled back, quickly withdrawing his hand away from where it had travelled to her waist. Her kisses were having a devastating effect on his person, one that he could not allow her to notice under any circumstances.

"Now something _is_ wrong," she said.

"I am sorry," he replied. "Surely you understand there are limits to what we can share right now."

She sat up and away from him, looked to where she folded her hands in her lap. "I have offended you with my forwardness."

"Offended is not the word I would use," he said, just as he heard a light cough from the direction of her brother.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Really?"

"Really."

"You are not upset?"

"Very much not upset."

"I am quite relieved," she said. "Perhaps we could walk again?"

"In a few minutes," he said, thinking he might need that time to cool the fire that had stoked in his blood, thought with dark amusement of Peter's recommendation once of a cool dip in a lake.

She smiled sweetly. "All right." After a moment, she asked, "May I sit and lean against your arm?"

"Of course you may," he said, and with that, she settled herself next to him, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. After a few moments he raised his arm up in order to place it about her shoulders. She turned and gave him a smile, one so beautiful and pure he imagined yet again that he must be dreaming. She snuggled into him a little; his fingers rested on her upper arm, his thumb brushing an arc there. She sighed happily. After many moments of this bliss he realised he had calmed enough to rise from the ground, and also that she had apparently drifted into slumber, her breathing slow and steady. Her hand rested on his jacket lapel.

The sound of breaking twigs and rustling grass brought his attention to the side and to the approach of Jamie Jones. For a moment he wondered if Jamie might not call him out as he had himself done to Cleaver, but instead he only smiled.

"Perhaps we should head back," Jamie said. "Have a little refreshment." 

The sound of her brother's voice woke Bridget from her repose with a loud, "Oh! Forgive me." She sat up and away from her fiancé.

"No need for forgiveness," said Darcy, thinking with some amusement on her own similar statement of earlier.

Darcy rose to his feet then helped her to her own. He bent for her bonnet and gloves, which she donned in turn, tying the ribbon under her chin again, then slipping on the gloves. "Shall we?"

"We shall," he said, extending an elbow towards her. "The local bear population is no match for me."

She giggled then placed her free hand on his arm as well, leaning into him as they walked back to The Gables.

………

_Thursday, 18 August_

It was quite difficult to tear himself away that day, and in the days to follow; he tried not to put himself in situations where they were alone, where he might be tempted to kiss her with as much fervency as he had, though it would be a lie to say that no further kisses were shared. Unsurprisingly, his brother alluded to the difficulty of being "so close yet still so far."

"You need not remind me," he said.

"Planning goes apace?"

Darcy nodded. It was a few days short of a fortnight until their nuptials; the venue had been secured, invitations were out and those from a longer distance away were already being returned by post enthusiastically. "We will be blessed with the presence of the Alconburys and Enderbys."

"Oh," he said.

"And the Russells," added Darcy.

Peter had been fond of Miss Russell and her brother, so he smiled. "That makes up for it somewhat."

When Bridget came to visit that day—she took greater pleasure than ever in playing the harp for her fiancé—she bore a smile that was pleased yet mischievous. "I have good news," she said to her future family. "I have gone for the final touches to be made on my dress at the dressmaker's."

Darcy smiled; somehow having a bridal dress nearly secured made their wedding seem all the more real. "That is good news," he said. "Will you describe it to me?"

"I cannot," she said, taking a seat beside him on the sofa and clasping his hand.

"Cannot?" he teased. "Does this mean you have not actually seen a dress for which you are being fitted?"

She pursed her lips. "I meant rather less like 'cannot' and more like 'will not', as I do not want you to be anything but pleased on the day itself."

"I can guarantee that I will be pleased no matter what you wear."

"All right, not 'pleased' and so much as 'surprised'."

"Say what you mean, then," he joked, though slightly irritably.

"Fine, then. I will tell you this much," she said. "It is… a long dress. With a hem. And sleeves." By the end of this description she was overcome with a fit of the giggles. It was both maddening and endearing to Darcy. His expression must have betrayed at least part of those feelings, because she desisted and apologised.

"It is quite all right," he said. "My only consolation is that I will see it soon enough."

Among others she played for them the song that Miss Glenville had so thoroughly butchered, _Für Elise_. Her technique, while not perfect, was angelic in comparison; she had improved greatly since she had taken to practising so frequently. When she concluded the three of them applauded quite vigorously. She stood and, with a fetching blush, did a curtsey.

The time came when she had to go; Jamie had not yet arrived and Lady Darcy and Peter did not see anything wrong with allowing them to wait in the foyer on their own.

She reached to hold his hand. "I cannot believe the wedding is nearly here, Mark," she said; she had become much more comfortable in using his given name since their engagement had begun.

He nodded. He very much looked forward to the day when she no longer needed to be brought to her parents' home by her brother. This would be her home as would the house in London; she would not have to leave his side.

"You are looking quite pensive," she remarked.

"It is little wonder," he said. "I have a lot on my mind." He took her other hand. "Most of which revolves around you."

Demurely she looked down, tinting pink again. 

"I do not know why you blush to hear me say such things," he said, lifting one hand to touch her face with his fingertips, to lift her chin to meet her gaze again.

"I find it so difficult to believe that you have chosen me," she said. "That you love me. I am anything but perfect."

He thought about something he had said to her father many weeks ago, and it seemed appropriate to say it again now. "I do love you," he said, "just as you are."

She blinked a few times to stay the tears that had rushed suddenly to flood her eyes. "Mark," she said tremulously. "I love you too." She was so quick to rise on her toes, to encircle her arms around his neck and kiss him, that he was momentarily knocked off balance, as much by her actions as by her words; he could not recall her confessing her love for him before. In the act of correcting his equilibrium he brought his hands to her upper back, which had the effect of pulling her abruptly against him. He heard her gloves drop to the floor behind him.

She gasped as they met in this hasty embrace, and as she did her mouth parted slightly. Whether he intentionally took advantage of this or simply did so instinctively, he did not know, but he placed his mouth over hers, causing her to gasp again and rake her nails in his hair, the feel of which made him shiver. 

He should have broken away, as gently as possible of course, but instead he continued the kiss, leading her by example; he was too titillated by the feel of her soft mouth on his, her hesitant tongue tracing along his lip after he did the same to her own.

It was she who broke away at the sound of a rapping on the door, not so much pushing him away as pushing herself back. "Oh, dear," she said, placing her hand to her cheek, then up to cover her mouth momentarily. She looked completely ravishing; her face was pink, her eyes wide and glossy, her lips slightly parted.

"Allow me to get the door," he said somewhat stiltedly, just as she spoke too.

"I am so sorry," she whispered.

He thought of the iciest bath he had ever had to try to quell his desire. "No apologies," he said. "It was not your fault."

"I kissed you," she reminded.

"I was also complicit," he said, "and I should have known better."

"Shall we agree to both be sorry, then?" she said, back in better humour.

He touched his hand to her cheek and smiled. "Agreed," he said, though the only thing he was sorry for was that they were not free to further explore. He thought briefly of what it might be like to divest her of her dress, but the knocking at the door sounded again. He cleared his throat. "That will be your brother."

It was indeed Jamie Jones, who smiled until he saw his sister bending to fetch her gloves then hastily tie her bonnet under her chin. "Everything all right?"

"Of course," she said, looking up to him with an expression worthy of an innocent babe. "Let us return home." As she passed him for the door, she reached to take his hand and squeeze it. "Until tomorrow," she said.

As they left, Darcy called for his valet. He needed that cold bath.

………

_Sunday, 28 August_

For what was supposed to be the most important day of his life, Darcy would, after the fact of the ceremony, have very little actual recollection of it. Certainly he called to mind the morning ablutions and the carriage ride to the church; he remembered standing before the vicar with a nervous feeling in his stomach and looking out to the sea of smiling faces.

Then he saw his bride. That was the last thing he could recall with any success.

She wore a dress of gauzy white fabric that went to the floor over a pearl pink underdress; an embroidered band at the waist and hem complemented a similar panel on the front. As she walked he could see the matching pink shoes peek out from beneath the hem; as she drew nearer he could discern the embroidery's motif was a floral one. What caught his attention, however, was the radiant smile on her face, the pink tinge to the apples of her cheeks, the pearled ribbon that encircled her head, and the tumble of curls that spilled down from the pins that held the bulk of her hair aloft. She was a vision, and not for the first time did he think he was the luckiest man in the world.

A gentle squeeze to his hand snapped from his reverie; they were already in the carriage, being whisked away from the wedding luncheon. He looked up and into Bridget's eyes. For the briefest of moments he panicked, thinking he could not possibly respectably be alone with her, until he remembered: she was now his wife. 

"You are so quiet," she said. 

He offered a smile. "I admit I am lost in thought," he said. "Everything was wonderful today." He chuckled. "I admit my memories of the day are a bit scattered and hazy except for when I think of you."

She smiled prettily. "You may take my word for it, then, that you had a very good time. You were very charming and gracious to dance with Becca, whom I find pleasant enough but can only tolerate in small doses."

He chuckled, thinking of the woman on whom Jamie Jones had his eye set and to whom he had escaped introduction the night of the ball, Miss Rebecca Smith, or Becca as she was called by her friends. "And you?"

She tightened her grasp again. "Equally good." She smiled. "I am very much looking forward to seeing London."

He reached to clasp both of her hands with his. "Is there any place you care to see more than any other? I will take you anywhere you want to go."

She blushed then looked down. "I shall have to defer to your superior intelligence on the places to go in town," she said, "since I have never been."

He knew she had not been presented officially nor had debuted, but he had thought surely a shopping excursion or travel had brought her there. "Never?" he asked with a bit more incredulity in his voice than he would have liked.

She turned red. "I must seem so unsophisticated," she said.

"I would not say that," he replied. "Perhaps poorly travelled. We can remedy that together, first within our own country, then to the continent when it is safe to do so."

At this she recovered her brightness. "I very much look forward to that."

They arrived in London in time for the evening meal; the new Lady Darcy was warmly received by the household staff when Darcy, along with the housekeeper, Mrs Fordyce, gave her a quick tour the house; Darcy had already expressed his desire to show her the rest himself the following day. 

"In all honesty," she whispered to her husband, commenting on the staff's addressing her, "when I hear 'Lady Darcy', I keep expecting to see your mother."

Proudly Mrs Fordyce showed Bridget her bedroom. "I personally made this up for you with special care, Lady Darcy," she said. Bridget looked around; it was quite beautifully decorated, but Bridget did not seem the least pleased by it.

"Do you approve?" Darcy prompted.

"Oh, yes," she replied. "It is very nice."

"Then why have you such a sad expression?"

She realised what that sad expression might convey, and said quickly, "Oh, Mrs Fordyce, please do not mistake my meaning. It is beautiful and looks comfortable." She turned to Darcy, her expression downright mournful. "Will we not share a bedroom?"

Darcy could not help but smile. "If that is your wish," he said, "then of course we will." He then leaned close to whisper, "It is my wish, too, but I did not want to assume. Having separate rooms is a convention that is proper to maintain."

She thought about it. "Perhaps if I am unwell," she said, "and do not wish to disturb you with my restlessness, then you may sleep alone."

After the tour was concluded, they were brought to and seated at the smaller, less formal dining table and presented their simple meal of lamb cutlets, asparagus and peas. Their glasses were filled with champagne, which made Bridget's eyes go round. They were left to dine on their own.

"What do you think?"

"Oh, very good," she said, then lifted her glass and took a tentative sip. That first moment when the bubbles filled her nose was amusing to watch, for she wrinkled it in a most adorable way. She took a long draw from it, though—it was a sweeter vintage than some—then set down the glass. "Very good indeed."

She looked so very beautiful by evening lamplight, and unsurprisingly his thoughts briefly wandered to expectations of their wedding night. He scolded himself, spearing a stalk of asparagus. "I think you shall like dessert as well."

"Oh? What is it?"

"If I tell you," he said, "then it will not be a surprise."

"What if I do not wish to be surprised?" she asked, taking another sip of champagne.

"As I was with your wedding gown," he insisted, "you would be happier to be surprised."

She lifted her chin, rose from her chair, then walked to where he sat; it was a short but surprising foray, particularly as she turned, put her arms around his neck, pecking a kiss on his lips as she dropped onto his lap. "Please?"

It was not that the manoeuvre was unwelcome—indeed it was most certainly not—but the rapidity of it gave him no chance to respond, and given his thoughts of a few minutes prior, he would have wanted that chance. With the confused expression that appeared instantly on her face, it was clear to him that she had encountered something with which she was completely unfamiliar.

He felt his mortification creep over his skin.

"Oh," she said in a whisper, backing off and getting to her feet again. "I am not sure I…" She paused. "I am sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"I am fine," he said quietly. "Do not apologise."

It was clear she did not truly understand given the way that she knit her brows, but she nodded then sat went back to sit in her seat. She still looked troubled.

He reached out to take her hand over the table between them, squeezing it gently. "Please, my darling," he said with great tenderness. "You have not injured me bodily or otherwise. Pray, continue to partake of your meal."

She looked from her plate to him, then smiled a little. After clearing her plate of the remains of her dinner, she said, "I think had your housekeeper been present I would have shocked her just now, regardless that we are married."

This caused him to smile too. "I believe so," he said. "I am not known by those in my employ for sudden displays of affection." At her troubled look, he added, "That will certainly change now that you are here."

She smiled again, this time with such warmth he was moved to call for dessert to be brought. When her bowl was set before her, her eyes flashed to look to him; she was unable to hide her delight.

"Chocolate cream," he confirmed.

With a broad grin she picked up her spoon, loaded it with chocolate cream then put it into her mouth, making a sound of appreciation as she pulled it slowly out. There was no possibility she had done it with secondary meaning, but a secondary meaning there was all the same, laden with sensuality and stoking his want of her all the more. He turned his attention to his own dessert and began to eat as much of it as he could.

"You were right, after all," she said, setting her spoon into her empty bowl. "I am glad to have been surprised."

Their bowls were then swept away; dinner was concluded. He rose from the table. "Perhaps at this time you would wish to make your evening ablutions."

She looked up to him, then nodded slightly. "All right."

It was the first indication he had of trepidation in her voice. He knew that young ladies were not given anything in the way of preparation for the marital bed; he had no idea what she expected, but thought it likely that not knowing was daunting enough. He went to her and took her hand, helped her rise from her chair, then leaned and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Mrs Fordyce will show you upstairs," he said.

She furrowed her brow.

He explained, "They will attend to you, ensure your dress is safely stored, help you with whatever you need, draw you a bath if you wish."

"A little more of the champagne?" she asked.

He chuckled. "There is only a little remaining." He took the bottle in his hand then poured the rest into their glasses. She picked up her glass as he did his, and they drank in tandem.

"What about you?" she asked.

"I will go to my own dressing closet."

"Oh," she said.

"Then I shall adjourn to your bedroom for the night," he said.

She nodded her understanding. "We have had a very long day," she remarked, and for the briefest of moments he thought she might wish to postpone consummation until the following day; however, she smiled, took his hand and placed a kiss on his knuckles, concluding with, "Until I see you next."

Darcy requested a bath prepared for himself. As he did he wondered how his bride was faring; particularly he wondered if she was feeling completely overwhelmed yet, with a change in marital status and in residence already behind her today and much more yet to come before the night was through. He was experiencing a nervousness of his own. Like most men of his status he had a certain familiarity with the female body; his had come courtesy of discreet encounters with one of the highest quality courtesans in all of London. Unlike most of those men, though, he had never taken a mistress, had not engaged in physical encounters borne out of love. Between the bride and groom, he was undoubtedly the more experienced. He hoped it would be enough.

Darcy dried then slipped into his dressing gown. By this point it was well dark outside. He bade Gillies extinguish the lamps after his departure then told the man he could then retire for the night. With a candlestick holder in one hand to light his way, he padded to her room and lightly rapped.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open. The room was lit by candle lamps, a lovely amber glow infusing every surface. The air was perfumed by the scent of roses, which were sitting in a vase on the bureau per his instruction. He saw her lying under the blankets as if she were convalescing from illness; only her head was visible and at that the coverlet went over her chin. He could not help but smile as he set his own source of illumination down.

"Good evening," he said, looking toward her.

"Good evening," she said in return. Unexpectedly she laughed lightly. "I cannot help but feel as if we are doing something illicit." Her smile faded. "I suppose I have to get used to the idea that you and I can be together. Alone."

He strode to the bed then sat upon it by her side, lifting a hand and easing the top edge of the linens down enough to reveal her throat. Her hair was unpinned and shining against the pillow, her eyes glossy as she looked up at him. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She closed her eyes, heaved in a great shaking breath.

"There is nothing to worry about," he said in a whisper, running his thumb along her lower lip. "I do not want you to be afraid of me. I will treat you with every tenderness, of that you can be sure." 

She nodded, mouthed a soundless, "I know." She lifted her lids and looked to him again, then abruptly, in a moment of braveness on her part, she sat up and pushed back the covers to reveal herself.


	13. In which patience's rewards are bestowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In period, a boudoir is a lady's private room, the equivalent of a gentleman's study or library. It is where she would have received friends and spent time alone writing letters. It is not a bedroom as we think of it today.

_Sunday, 28 August_

Darcy had had many imaginings of what Bridget would look like beneath her various dresses; lying there in repose dressed in a nightgown of pale rose silk, he realised his mind's eye had done her no justice. He watched the bumps raise on her skin as the cooler air of the room met it, heard and saw her shiver. In response he moved closer to her, put his arms around her, holding her close.

"I shall keep you warm," he murmured, running his hand over the soft skin from her shoulder clear down to her wrist. She sighed, turned her head, and placed her lips on his.

Now that there were no societal reasons keeping them from physical intimacy, the only restraints he faced were his own; he vowed not to be selfish or to do anything that might alarm her. He returned her kiss—as chaste as the first one they had shared—then raised his hand to run his fingers through the length of her hair, which was unbound and free around her shoulders, as golden as any halo could be. He then coaxed her lips apart, which, to his delight, did not need much coaxing; then he was taken off his guard when she initiated a deeper, more passionate kiss, her breath turning ragged as she leaned into him. Her hand clasped on his shoulder not to push him away but to pull herself to him.

Darcy had rein over some of his actions, but not of others; thus the inevitable physical reaction to the kiss, the feel of her skin under his fingers, the warmth of her against him, began to build.

"May I touch you?" he breathed, breaking from their kiss, trailing his hand up her arm to her shoulder.

"But you are already touching—" she began; when his hand continued down, when the backs of his fingers brushed along her breast, she stopped short. "Oh," she said, her lids fluttering. "You may certainly, yes."

He turned his hand to cup her generous bosom in his hand as he kissed her again. As his thumb ran over her hardened nipple he heard her make a little whimper.

"Not too much?" he asked, and prayed dearly it was not.

She placed her hand atop his; there was a moment where he feared she might tear it away, but she only stroked the skin. "Not at all," she whispered, then kissed him again.

He put an arm around her waist, splayed a hand on her back as his free hand went to her leg. He felt her stiffen a little before relaxing under the caresses his fingertips worked.

With his encouragement she laid back onto the copious pillows; he brought his lips to her cheek, chin, jaw then throat, taking the lower lobe of her ear between his teeth, eliciting a shudder from her.

"Darling," he said, breath hot on her neck as his fingers reached for the lower hem of her silken nightgown, already ridden up by virtue of their shifting on the bed. He then slid a hand up along her thigh and when he did, she made an unbelievably sensual sound low in her throat.

He would not be able to wait much longer to have her.

"Darling," he said again, lifting the edge up until he saw her bare hip.

"Mark," she said tremulously, halting his hand with her own.

"What is it?" he asked, plying her with tender kisses to her lips.

"I am afraid."

"I will not lie to you and say with certainty this will not hurt," he said tenderly. "If you would prefer to… _wait_ … we do not need to—"

"We do," she said. "It is my duty as your wife."

He met her eyes, then leaned in again. "I would hope," he said, kissing one corner of her mouth, "it will be more"—he paused to kiss the other corner—"than just a duty."

He felt her nails in his hair. "I trust you and love you."

With that said he lifted the gown from her and off of her, revealing her soft, curvy, alabaster body, nearly overwhelming his sensibility. He wished to ensure she was ready for the act itself. "May I touch you again?" he asked in a throaty tone, running his fingers over her hip, admiring the slight curve of her belly.

"Before when you asked and I agreed," she said in a shaky whisper, "I enjoyed it, so you should take further consent as read."

Explicit permission granted, he ran his fingers down over her abdomen and further below still. She cried out, not in pain but in a mixture of surprise and pleasure at the pressure there. He was glad to hear such encouragement, and equally glad to have confirmation that he did not need to wait further.

He sat up enough to push the dressing gown off of himself, and as he did he realised he had perhaps deprived her of her own exploration, if her curious look was anything by which to judge.

"I have tended to male infants, but…" she began, drifting off.

At this his own modesty caused him to flush with heat; he was not used to being observed with such scrutiny and intensity while wearing nothing at all. He was grateful for the concealment of his blush offered him by the dimness of the room. "Trust me, darling," he said softly.

He bent down over her, resting on his elbow. She raised her hand to stroke his face with the backs of her fingers. He then leaned in to kiss her, no hesitation now in reclaiming his fervour. She brought her arms up and around his neck and met his kiss with equal ardour; he was pleased enough, aroused enough, simply in pleasing her. He raked his blunted fingernails up the back of her thigh to encourage her to raise her knee, which she did. 

Slowly, patiently, with his gentle encouragement, they achieved the connexion desired, and though she shed tears at the loss of her maidenhood, she did offer enough vocalisations to suggest she did not merely tolerate the activity. Though he moderated the force of his thrust somewhat so not to hurt her unduly, the entire endeavour was beyond satisfactory to him; his pent up desire for her was enough for him to reach culmination quickly, moaning aloud as he did. Upon conclusion, he fell to his side on the bed, then gathered her up into his arms to hold her tight and pulled the linens over them to keep them warm.

There was no sound for many minutes except for his panting in counterpoint to her own breathing. He cupped her face in his hand, wiping her tears away, then kissed her.

"You are all right, I hope?" he asked.

She nodded. To him, she seemed a little stunned. "Did I do well?"

"More than well," he said, then held her close, her bare chest pressed to his, their limbs entwined. He fought the call of slumber.

"I must say I am perplexed."

He lifted his lids, looking to her; it was not at all what he would have expected to hear. "Why do you say that?"

"I was only told to trust you," she said, "and do my duty."

He waited for more, remembering what she had said earlier.

"When I think of duty," she continued, "I think of something dreadful and dull and unpleasant that one is compelled to do." She looked pensive. "But I never understood why, if it were so unpleasant, so many ladies were willing to throw themselves at the likes of Byron."

He chuckled—he could not help himself—then tightened his embrace. "I should hope that means you do not find it dreadful, dull or unpleasant." 

She sighed, placing a kiss upon his shoulder. "I confess I do not."

"So you are perplexed by what, then?"

"Why it would be made to sound so like a chore," she said.

At this he laughed. "Perhaps for those who marry for convenience it is, but not for those who marry for love." He paused, stroking her shoulder. "Byron did not know the half of love," he said, "if love is what you and I have, and I have no reason to believe we do not." As he said this, she snuggled against his throat, he kissed the crown of her head, combing through her hair with his fingers. "'Can I forget—canst thou forget,'" he murmured, quoting that poet, "'When playing with thy golden hair, / How quick thy fluttering heart did move?'"

He heard her laugh lightly and sigh once more. "Oh, but he comes close."

He agreed quietly, though qualified it with a, "Not close enough."

With that she sighed yet again and settled against him, their breathing practically in unison; he thought she might have drifted to sleep and was tempted to do so himself when she spoke again.

"I do not suppose…" She trailed off. "Never mind. You could not know."

His interest was piqued. "Ask me."

She pushed herself up to look into his eyes. "It cannot be that it will hurt every time, unless this is the aspect of duty to which my mother referred. _Oh_ ," she said sadly. "That must be it."

He took her face in his hand. "As I understand it," he said, "it will never hurt again as much, and maybe only once more or twice."

She seemed somewhat consoled, though asked, "As much?"

"Yes," he said, wondering how to put it delicately. "There was some… resistance. That should not occur again; therefore, less pain."

She appeared to be considering his words. " _That_ does not happen every time?"

"If it did, you would have extremely unique healing capabilities."

Blinking thoughtfully, she then asked, "May we try it again?"

He chuckled again. "It may still hurt a little so soon after the first time," he explained. "It is probably best that we wait."

She seemed relieved yet at the same time equally disappointed. It was very like her to show enthusiasm for an activity once initial trepidation had worn off. "All right," she said, resting her head down upon his shoulder again, her hand on his chest. With her settled in and comfortable, she soon was truly sleeping, and then he allowed himself to succumb to slumber too, satiated in body and spirit, happier beyond his wildest dreams. 

_Monday, 29 August_

It came as no surprise that Darcy slept particularly soundly that night; in fact, he slept so soundly that he went well beyond his usual time of awakening (in part because he asked that he and his new bride not be disturbed until they requested). When he did finally rouse it was to a most curious sight: propped up on a pillow beside him was Bridget, looking at him with great interest, wisps of hair framing her face.

He regarded her regarding him for just a moment before he said, "What are you doing?"

"Watching you whilst you sleep. Oh! Did my watching cause you to wake?"

He chuckled, turning over to face her. "Nothing would surprise me." He saw that she wore a nightgown, different than the one of her marriage bed and made of soft cotton. She smelled pleasantly of lavender soap, and her hair was braided and rested on her shoulder. "Have you been awake for long?"

"Not very long," she said. "My maid came at my request and filled a bath for me; I put on something clean, had a little breakfast, and spent a little time in my boudoir with my daybook."

He raised a brow, thinking back to that time just after he had met her, the rough start to their own acquaintance due to that very daybook, how it had been, according to her, a repository for her thoughts and private amusements.

"Do not worry," she said. "I have not been indiscreet. A lady's wedding day, however, deserves a little commemoration."

He smiled drowsily. "I trust you slept well?"

She nodded. "The bed is very comfortable," she said. As an afterthought, it seemed, she added, "It was very strange to have another's breathing just next to me."

He was overcome with guilt at the thought that perhaps he had snored or had otherwise kept her from sleeping, and he pushed himself up onto his own elbow. "I am most dreadfully sorry if it bother—"

She placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. "Do not apologise," she said. "It is an adjustment I am pleased to make." She had a playful look in her eye, and the longer their gazes met, the more delightful her smile became. "Among others, I mean."

He leaned towards her just as she leaned too, and he kissed her; that this might be how every morning was spent for the remainder of his years filled his heart with love.

"Do you think it might…" She paused, blushing. "That it might still hurt?"

She did not need to spell out her meaning to him. "How are you this morning?"

"A little sore, but the bath helped greatly."

He gave her another brief kiss. "If you are willing, I would not object in the least." He then gave her a more passionate one.

This morning after their wedding night, he was less impatient and more deliberate in his ministrations, not only treating her to a wealth of caresses, but encouraging her to reciprocate when she was moved to do so. Before too long, he reasoned, they would be so attuned to one another's wants and desires that engaging with one another this way would be as automatic as breathing. It would be like second nature.

When they joined again, she having been divested of her cotton garment by hands eager to touch her bare skin, her utterances spoke more of pleasure than pain. He reached satisfaction and once again collected her to him to hold her, kiss her, caress her. He asked with loving whispers if she was all right, and she affirmed that as he predicted, though it did hurt, the pain was much reduced. She seemed philosophical when she said in a breathy tone, "What we share in this bedroom will never be mere duty." She ran her fingers over the mat of hair on his chest. "It is already as far from a duty as I can conceive."

He buried his nose into her hair, then kissed her there. "I am glad you feel that way."

"I can assure you, I do as well," she said. "Being consigned to a life of mere duty would be an unimaginable torture." Darcy recalled the words spoken by her father so long ago; how right he had been, and how well he had known his daughter, to want her to wed for love, to wish only for her happiness. She sighed, and it was a joyous sound to hear. "To think I might have missed this all but for the foolish impulse of infatuation."

Bridget must have been referring to her ill-fated elopement; he too was grateful for intervening. The mere mention of the event made him think of Cleaver, though, which made him wonder what liberties he might have taken. She had not been coerced into the ultimate act of intimacy, that much had been apparent to him in the tears she had shed and the pain she had expressed in their bed the night before, but had Cleaver kissed her the way he himself had?

"Mark?" she asked. "What is the matter?"

He had tensed up at the mere thought. "It is nothing at all," he said. "Just foolishness on my part."

"I wish to hear, whatever it is."

"I do not think you wish to hear this."

"Why ever not?"

"Because it is about—" It was too late. He had to finish the sentence. "It is about you."

"Me?" she asked, impishness in her voice. "Well, now I must insist you tell me."

"Your… infatuation," he said.

"My…" Her tone became instantly solemn. "You believe you were not the first—"

"Of course I was," he said gently. "Every evidence tells me that was so and I do not doubt it for a moment." He sighed, hastening to console this wound to her honour by caressing her face. "Perhaps I was feeling jealous that I… was not the first to kiss you with true passion."

She flushed red from head to toe. "I am embarrassed to admit that a kiss was stolen here and there, but we were not granted the enormous amount of freedom that you and I had at Grafton Manor, and Mr Cleaver… well, he lacked the reverence that you have shown me."

"Was there passion?"

His asking this was, he realised, a mistake.

"You cannot fault me for wanting a kiss from a man I believed I loved," she said, some of her old fire surfacing. "You do not hear me asking how you knew what to do last night. I know it is different for men…" She did not finish. Instead she sat up, drawing the linens to her, facing away from him.

"Bridget," he said tenderly, brushing his fingertips along her bare back before pushing himself up on an elbow. "Please come back to me. I told you it was foolishness. I have you now and I am wholly grateful for it."

She turned her head enough that he saw her in profile. Quietly, so quietly he almost did not hear her, she asked, "Who was she?"

He thought about telling his wife that she, the courtesan who had ushered him into manhood, was no one of significance, but then he thought she might wonder if there was some lost love he yet harboured for another. He had to lay to rest any doubt. "She… was a Cyprian," he began, feeling the flush over his skin at this admission, "a woman whom I consider to have helped to prepare me in the event I met someone I loved and wished to marry, so that I might please her to the best of my ability. That is all there ever was." She turned to look over her shoulder at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, an expression of uncertainty. He went on. "I have kept no clandestine lovers, have had no affairs of the heart. I did not find that love until I found you."

He saw a tear spill over her lower lid and onto her cheek, heard her sob. "Now I am being foolish," she said.

"No, you were not," he said. "I should not have even given it a thought. Your reaction was justified."

With rapidity she turned to face him again, then lurched forward to embrace him with such force that he fell backwards, she atop him, her queue dangling down and tickling him. She smiled; he did, too. "It was foolish," she said, her spirits quite restored.

"I will declare that I do not mind being anything, even foolish," he said, "as long as it is with you."

With another sweet smile she lowered her head and kissed him, sustaining it as it grew in ardour; he ran his hands over her bare back and down over her bottom, pressing gently, causing her to make a soft sound into his mouth.

He broke away then pushed himself to sit up, guiding her to sit on his lap, her legs around his waist, the linens tangled up around them.

She seemed a little bewildered. "What is this?" she asked.

He ran his hands from her bottom to her hips, then up to the points on her breasts; he had learned quickly that she liked that very well. "Another way to love one another," he said gently. "You might like controlling your own fate in this realm."

"My own fate?"

Instead of trying to explain, he wrapped his arms about her waist and pulled her flush to him, then took her bottom in hand and lifted her up. She took the hint promptly enough and moved so that her knees were supporting her. They kissed again, she from a vantage point slightly over him, and in a very short time it appeared she liked controlling her own fate very much indeed. In fact, with the right amount of digital persuasion and a judicious application of lips, teeth and tongue, he was able to bring her a satisfaction that only he had achieved up until that point in their unions.

"Whoever she was," Bridget whispered after they had settled back into each other's arms, "perhaps I should write her a note of thanks." When she spoke again, he expected more pensive contemplations, not an irreverence that caused him to laugh: "Which reminds me, I owe you a note for the horse-riding lessons."

………

It being a honeymoon, they were forgiven for their very late appearance to luncheon at a time when folks in the country were preparing their supper. Their parting was a reluctant one but inevitable. After tidying up and dressing separately they met downstairs in the drawing room. She was already there, her hair pinned tidily, clothed in a pale blue dress, and she was reading from a book she must have carried along with her from Grafton Underwood. Upon his entrance, she closed it, set it down and looked to him with a radiant smile.

"Have something to eat," she beckoned. "You must be very hungry."

Despite having called earlier for a maid to bring some coffee and fruit, he was indeed hungry, though he had not noticed it before that moment. He took some cold roast and cheese supplemented with a glass of wine. "Have you eaten?"

"I only just arrived before you did and was waiting for you," she said. On his plate he doubled the amount of food, fetched her a glass of lemon water, then sat beside her close enough that their legs touched. He offered her the plate and she took a small piece of meat and cheese, and as she did he could only remark to himself how much more radiant and beautiful she seemed.

As she took a bite she noticed his observation of her and her cheeks turned pink. "I do not know if I will ever get used to this."

"To what?"

"Your attention."

"I pray that you do," he said, "else you will spend the rest of your life blushing in my presence."

She smiled and continued to eat. "You know, I could not help notice that your housekeeper shares a family name with that fellow responsible for unleashing his platitudes and sermons upon the world."

He had never given it thought. "I trust you find her more amenable than the sermons." She seemed reluctant to answer, but he reminded her that they were alone.

"I find her a little intimidating," she admitted. "She does not consider me an interloper into the house she has maintained for so long, does she?"

"Of course not," he responded. "She may need a little time to adjust to the fact that there is a new mistress in the house now, but you will see she is efficient and knowledgeable."

"She is not in charge of me, is she?"

"On the contrary," he said. "She is in charge of many things, but not you. Though for those things for which she is responsible, even I defer to her opinion on most occasions." He grinned. "No, _I_ am the one in charge of you."

She looked up, then with her free hand reached to playfully swat at his knee. In a quiet voice with a small smile, she said, "I feel like I might be the first Bridget in the history to have escaped a nunnery."

Her comment was not one he expected. "What do you mean?"

"Well, there was Saint Brigid, and there was Princess Bridget…"

He chuckled. "I do not think every Bridget there ever was became fated to a nunnery," he said, "not to mention that the Church of England does not employ them."

"Oh. Tiny, insignificant details." She took another bite then after chewing and swallowing she said, "Do we have anything planned for today?"

"Nothing in particular," he replied, though he had expectations of a specific arrival to the house that day. A few moments after they concluded luncheon, one of the maids came to announce that very hoped-for arrival, as if by providence.

Bridget looked to him, shocked. "A delivery cart? Delivery of what?"

He only smiled enigmatically. "I suppose it is not kind of me to ask you where you might like to place it when you have only just arrived here yourself."

She stared at him, rising to her feet as he strode forward to meet the delivery men, who gave Darcy a tip of the hat as he entered the foyer. "Lord Darcy, sir, Mr Ollanton sends his best wishes and congratulations to you on your nuptials," said the lead man. " _And_ , sir, his appreciation. Rarely does he get a second purchase of this nature from the same customer."

"Oh!" He turned to see Bridget standing there, hand over her mouth. Despite the object being draped in cotton and canvas to protect it during transit, there was no mistaking the shape of what had been brought in.

Darcy introduced Bridget as the new Lady Darcy as the men hastily took off their hats and bowed. "Congratulations, Ma'am," said the second one. "You the one what plays?"

"I do, yes," she said with a blush.

"My gift to you on the occasion of our wedding," he said to her. "I did not think carting a harp back and forth between town and country would be very good for the instrument."

The first one spoke again, asking him, "Where would you like this?"

Excitedly she looked to Darcy, who, with a gesture, deferred to her. She said, "The drawing room, I think would be best."

The two men manoeuvred the harp into what she (with consultation of her husband, who was better acquainted with the patterns of sun during the day) thought would be the ideal location; enough light to see the music well by day but indirect so as not to warp the wood with which it was constructed. Once the base was in place and the harp was facing in the correct direction with respect to where she would sit to play it, once the thickly padded seat was placed appropriately, the covering was drawn off of it.

Darcy had not thought it could be possible, but this harp was even more beautiful than the first. He had purchased it sight unseen having charged the shopkeeper with finding it, and he was not disappointed. Also of highly polished walnut, this one had not only fine woodworking but golden inlay decoration vining along the top edge. Bridget approached it and traced her fingers along the top curve, though the height of the harp exceeded her own.

 _Nine-hundred and ninety eight to go_ , Darcy mused to himself, thinking back to the promise he had made to himself. Aloud he commended, "Please tell Mr Ollanton he has my thanks for his excellent taste."

Their work complete, the two men withdrew, not that Darcy thought she noticed; she was examining the strings and plucking at them gently to hear them reverberate. "To think I disliked playing once," she said, then turned to him. "I know I am not the greatest of harpists, but it gives me so much pleasure to play knowing it pleases you so well." She strode up to him, got onto her toes, took his face in her hands and gave him a kiss. "Thank you. It is a marvellous gift."

He felt his skin flush with heat. He was not used to such forward displays of affection, even if it were only in his own home. "It benefits us both."

She looked to him with curiosity. "You have turned colour." He explained why. "Oh, I did not mean to embarrass you. I am sorry," she said.

"Please, do not apologise," he said. "You would probably do well to restrain your impulse out on the street, but here, in the privacy of our home, it is I who must apologise for a silly involuntary reaction."

At this she got up on her toes again and kissed him once more. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her close. She broke away with a little giggle, standing down again. "That is not the only involuntary reaction I provoke, I think," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

He could not protest because she was not wrong. He only chuckled.

She wandered back towards the harp, took a seat on the stool, arranged her skirts around herself and brought her fingers up to sweep across the strings. "'Our home'," she said over the fading notes. "I like the sound of that very much, indeed."

Bridget played; Darcy sat on the sofa content with listening to the dulcet melodies. Before long Mrs Fordyce, in the action of passing through the foyer with some of her friends, appeared tentatively at the threshold; he heard the one called Arabella gasp and whisper, " _Perpetua!_ Who is playing that?" After they listened for a few moments, Darcy could hear his housekeeper offering her version of praise, which pleased him; usually she was a rather gruff woman from whom a compliment rarely or easily came, and even still it was clear that in her choice of words she did not believe Darcy could hear her, a tenor of pride lacing her words: "My master is far too clever to have merely married a beautiful woman who can play an instrument; she is also spirited and pleasantly independently opinionated, _and_ she obviously loves Lord Darcy. She is no silly lapdog, this one." He would happily accept the praise she offered.

Within a few more moments, others from the household staff had gathered at the door to the drawing room, undoubtedly drawn by the sound of the music; Darcy forgave this slight dereliction of duty, chalking it up as a novel fascination with their new mistress. As she finished they applauded respectfully and with sincerity, which surprised Bridget and caused her to flush bright red. She got to her feet and did a curtsey, then as if caught in a gaffe, she stood up straight again, smiled and politely said, "Thank you."

They began to disperse, and Darcy could not help noticing she looked a little overwhelmed. "Do not look so distressed," he said, going to her. "It has only been a day. You are not expected to know everything you need to know already." He gave her a little hug then drew back and said, "How would you like to take a walk, you and I, around our neighbourhood?"

"I find the idea most agreeable," she said, "and upon our return, I should like to engage in a round of billiards."

Indeed, he had married well.

………

_Tuesday, 30 August_

When they had arrived in London, the tour of the house had indeed been abbreviated; Mrs Fordyce had only showed her the common rooms where she would have had likely occasion to go, and though he had promised her a full tour, he had been too distracted (and understandably so) to give her one. He should have guessed her curiosity about her new home was not fully satisfied, which he discovered the following afternoon. After concluding a small amount of business in his study, during which she said she would write more into her daybook, when he went to find her, she was not present in her boudoir. Curious, he went to her bedroom and to the drawing room; both turned up empty.

Then he realised what else would have drawn her attention: books.

He went to the library and found her not upon a chair with a tome in hand, but instead, standing before the portrait of his father, her expression one of sadness. "He was a very handsome fellow," she murmured, then looked to him. "And a good man." A tear escaped her eye and she quickly reached to brush it away; she clearly was unhappy to have been deprived of a daughter's relationship with his father. He went to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

"He would have loved having you as a daughter," Darcy murmured. "He would have played game after game of billiards with you."

"And probably would have let me won," she said with a sniff and a giggle.

"Probably," he said, "and he would have been glad to do so." After a pause, he added, "In all honesty, I expected you to say that he _had_ played game after game of billiards with you."

She chuckled. "I did not visit Grafton Manor as much when he was still alive," she said, "for which I regret."

"Do not be regretful," he said. "I am sure he is, even now, looking upon us and muttering curses under his breath wishing he could ask you for that game. I am equally sure he is happy beyond measure for me." 

For dinner that night he sent instructions to the cook to prepare his father's favourite meal, and over dinner they raised a toast to the man they now could both call 'father'.


	14. In which further confidences are exchanged.

_Sunday, 11 September_

They spent two weeks total in London, and by the end of it Bridget seemed as comfortable in town as she ever had been in Grafton Underwood. They had had many letters, notably from his mother and hers, and they had corresponded in reply when time allowed between expeditions to the great shops in town, seeing the sights and sampling some of the restaurants. "We will have time enough to travel elsewhere," Darcy said to her, his hand holding her gloved one as the carriage rattled along towards their destination, Grafton Manor, where they would spend the remainder of their time until the beginning of the London season. "I have quite enjoyed spending this time with you, getting into the rhythm of our life together, and most importantly of all, having your undivided attention."

Bridget smiled, then sighed a little. "We are very lucky," she said, squeezing his hand.

His mother and brother were most excited upon their return. She embraced each of the newlyweds with great affection. "Oh," said Lady Darcy exuberantly, "you are both so radiant! Your happiness is shining through."

Peter nodded his agreement. "I do not believe I have ever seen you smiling so much, Mark," he said as they engaged in a brotherly hug. "Except perhaps on your wedding day itself."

Bridget spent much time with her godmother while Darcy and his brother went for a ride on horseback. Upon seeing a rather impish grin on Peter's face, casually Darcy said, "I sense there is something you wish to say to me in private."

"What could I possibly wish to say?" he asked coyly.

"Whether that boundless energy proved to extend to certain other areas?"

"I would never be so crass," said Peter, "but since you have brought it up…"

Darcy laughed, then said, "As a gentleman, I shall never tell." However, his grin, likely as smug as a cat's, said enough.

"You do know what is coming next, do you not?" Peter asked as they got to the stable. He dismounted.

"What?" asked Darcy as he too dismounted.

"Questions about when the baby comes."

In meeting and falling in love with Miss Jones, now his wife, he had forgotten his goal from what now seemed so long ago: the production of an heir. He was ashamed to think he had once been willing to settle for tolerable companionship to meet that end.

Peter spoke again. "You look dismayed at the idea of a baby."

"Actually, that is not at all what dismays me." Darcy explained his former requirements for wife in apologetic tones.

"Oh, heavens," said Peter. "How far off from the mark you were!"

"I know."

"I mean, truly. Billiards was not on your list?"

Darcy laughed at this as they entered the house. "I do, actually, feel a slight dread at the thought of the prying questions."

"And I, a joy at the prospect of niece or nephew."

"You went riding?"

Bridget stood there with her hands on her hips looking quite put out; her brow was furrowed and her mouth set in a pouting frown.

"Sorry, darling," he said. "We shall soon go again."

"Later?"

"Tomorrow."

She seemed slightly mollified; her hands drifted down from her hips, her mouth slipped into a smile. "Go and get cleaned and you can make this grave affront up to me by walking with me in the garden."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said teasingly.

A half-hour later he joined his family in the drawing room again. At his arrival his wife set down her book and smiled, rising to her feet, tying her bonnet into place.

"Let us take a turn about the garden," he said, "and you can decide if you deign to forgive me."

He caught his mother and brother with smirks upon their lips; they knew that this was playful banter, and he suspected they were not only amused but surprised he was so easily given to such banter. He held out his elbow and she slipped a hand through the crook.

Once they had gotten as far as the shade of the trees she said to him, "Mark?"

"Yes, Bridget?"

"When exactly did you know you loved me?"

His love for her had grown so gradually that it was impossible to pinpoint exactly when it had begun; he only knew when he had become aware of it. "I cannot be absolutely sure," he said, more in jest than not, "but suspect it began from the moment I inadvertently overheard you picking out books in the library the afternoon of your arrival at King's Lynn."

She stopped walking, and he did as well. He immediately noticed her chagrin. "You did not," she said. "Oh! Your reference to Byron was no coincidence!"

"It was not."

"So it was not your mother who—"

"Oh, I am mistaken," he continued. "In fact, it was when I saw you jumping down out of the carriage in a most unladylike manner."

"You were witness to that?"

He nodded. "I saw it occur from the window of my room."

She covered her face with her hands. "I am deeply mortified."

"Do not be," he said. "I found both immediately charming." They began to stroll again. "What about you?" he asked. "When did you know?"

"I think it struck me when I started feeling so strongly against Miss Glenville," she said. "It was not rational, and it confounded me until I realised it was jealousy, something with which I have had no experience. I mean, I had thought the feelings I had were that you were like a brother, but I have never felt the need to scratch out Becca's eyes every time she is near Jamie, so that was telling to me. Then when I believed you to be engaged to her, I became despondent—of course that meant I loved you."

He smiled; it was easy to smile about it now they were joined in marriage. He placed his hand over where hers rested on his forearm, and for the rest of their walk they said nothing more. They did not need to.

Beneath the low-slung sun of the late summer afternoon they paused beneath the oldest tree on the grounds to share a kiss. He now thought it very likely that he _had_ loved her from the moment he had seen her come out from the carriage, even if he had not consciously known it.

………

By the end of September, the Jones family had more happy news: that Jamie Jones had made an offer ("At last," lamented his sister) to Miss Smith.

"Perhaps he is feeling it acutely that his younger sister has wed before he has," said Darcy as they breakfasted.

"My brother has never been competitive in that way with me," she said, "but I think my marrying has perhaps reminded him that there is no time like the present."

Darcy spent many a day wondering if he should pinch himself to prove he was not dreaming; to have such bliss when only a quarter of a year had passed since he had found love. It was not without its occasional wrinkle—minor disagreements about whether she should ride Fiona without his accompaniment, and the occasional butting of heads with Mrs Bosworth, the housekeeper at Grafton Manor, over a domestic matter since the two women could be equally stubborn—but nothing that could not be smoothed out before the day ended, and nothing that kept them from each other's arms at night.

As for their intimacy, she had predicted correctly in thinking that it would be even less like a duty and more like a joy as time went on; she quite enthusiastically initiated intercourse, sometimes even before they had retired to the bedroom, and more often than not.

They were, after all, newlyweds still.

They sat across from one another at the small, round table often employed (as it currently was) for cards, an endeavour she ordinarily did not care for and one which surprised him when she suggested it. In the meanwhile his mother read by the fire and his brother wrote a letter at the escritoire; Peter had kept correspondence up with Tom Russell, and as it had turned out, they had quite a lot in common. "I shall send your good wishes," said Peter.

"Of course," said Bridget. "And to Sharon as well."

She was not doing very well during their game, for which Darcy felt both pleased… and guilty for feeling pleased. He felt something brush up his shin, and he furrowed his brow, tilting to the side and looking under the table to see what could have done so. He looked up; she was the picture of innocence, at least until he felt it again.

This time when he looked, he caught her stocking foot retreating to her slip-on shoe. He turned his eyes up to her and she smirked.

Her right foot suddenly appeared on the chair between his legs. He raised a singular brow. She moved it and began curling her toes against his thigh.

"Darling," he said suddenly in surprise, then added, "I believe it is your turn."

"Ah," she said, glancing down to the splay of her hand of cards. "Allow me a moment more to think on it." As she said it, she intensified the pressure of her toes as she moved them higher up on his leg. He did not dare push his chair away but he did try to sit up straighter. When this had no effect, he brought his knees together as best as he could to dissuade her from continuing.

This was a mistake, as her toes found their quarry and worked madness upon his person. He fought the heaviness of his lids and met her gaze; the way she was looking at him through her lids was itself seductive, as was the impish curl of her lip.

Neither Peter nor his mother were paying the least attention to the status of their game, for which he was thankful. He moved his own hand of cards to his left, then reached down to her leg and began stroking her calf, grazing his nails along the stocking and causing her to falter in her effort.

He smiled to her. "Do you concede the game to me?" he asked, its double meaning only evident to the two of them.

She renewed her effort. "No, sir, I do not."

Just as she began applying delightful pressure with the ball of her foot did he find the tender spot behind her knee. "Oh," she said, then quickly continued, "I do believe we are at a draw."

"Perhaps we should conclude this hand," he said.

"Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps let us take some air together." She set her cards down, withdrew her foot then, after a pause during which he was sure she was returning her shoe to its place, she rose. "Come, Mark," she said. "Why do you linger?"

She knew full well why he lingered. He merely calmly gathered the cards back up into the deck then squared the pile before allowing himself to stand. "Just wished to put things in order for the next round."

"I shall meet you at the door, then." With that, she swept out of the room.

He managed to catch Peter's eye as he stood then turned to leave. "You were winning again, were you not?" he quipped.

"She does not care for cards," Darcy said; he had a feeling Peter knew precisely what had transpired.

He quit the room with as much patience as he could muster. When he reached the bedroom she was perched demurely upon the edge of the bed, but her gaze, her smile, spoke volumes and fanned his desire back to full flame.

He shut the door behind him then dove upon her and kissed her, not caring that she was still clothed in her dress; he needed only to push up her skirt, unfasten the flap of his breeches, to achieve full satisfaction in some respects.

Not, however, in others.

He drew away, meeting her eyes from where she was beneath him, her cheeks flushed and a smile on her face. At his ceasing, however, she looked querulous. "Something wrong?" she breathed.

She had grown bolder during their intimacies regarding what she did with her hands, and he had in his turn grown bolder too, but there were still a few of the Cyprian's lessons left to be shared. He merely smiled in what he hoped was the most mysterious manner he could manage.

"What?" she asked more insistently.

He kissed her again, lifted her skirts to her waist, then drew away again to sink to his knees, pulling her stockings from her then placing a kiss on the velvety skin just inside her knee.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sounding slightly alarmed until she made a soft sound, corresponding to the touch of his tongue to her skin.

"Relax," he said gently, caressing her knee and shin, and with that he proceeded to elicit many more soft sounds, then a few that were not so soft. The further up he progressed, the more she seemed to approve, and he was able to bring about her gratification at the expense of delaying his own.

Trembling, he rose to join her on the bed; she was heaving great breaths as she turned to look at him. "You are wicked, far more so than I ever would have imagined," she said, then added with a little smile, "and I love you for it."

He chuckled, secretly relieved he had not terrified her into wanting a divorce.

"And you, poor dear," she continued sympathetically, reaching for the flap on his breeches. "You must be aching for relief." As she drew it back he could only sigh his assent, and she proceeded to do just that for him, straddling his lap and taking the reins, as it were.

They afterwards rested side by side in an embrace, their clothes in utter disarray and hair mussed. He did not care in the least. "We will one of these days scandalise the help," she said quietly as he kissed her throat with reverence.

"Scandalise," he wondered, "or make envious?"

She laughed, and he thought once more how much he loved the sound of her laughter.

… … …

_Sunday, 13 November_

When Darcy's mother told him his wife was in the room she had adopted in Grafton Manor as her boudoir, he fully expected to find her there, but she was not. It was not a room he went into often; it was where she had her friends over to visit, wrote letters and other things she liked to do in solitary, so he had no need to interrupt her when she was there.

His eye was caught by the open volume on her writing table. The red cover told him it was her daybook, and he was unaccountably overcome with curiosity, but knew he should not look. He strode to it to close the cover and return the book to the drawer when the page flipped back to one with a line drawing curlicues and vines… encircling an unfortunate insult to his own person.

_This lord to whom I have been introduced is haughty and given to lecturing at the slightest whim. What is my mother thinking… and his? I am confident I am the last woman in the world he would be happy with, and he, the last man I should want. Why can they not just accept D for the man he has sworn he has become?_

He was stunned to read it, but realised it dated from their first meeting; of course she would have considered him thus. That she loved him now was all that mattered. He went to close the book again, looking to place the ribbon this time in the end, when his eyes grazed over other entries, refreshing and candid observations about those around her and details of her maiden then married life, but those that might hurt feelings or even scandalise if ever they were seen beyond the walls of their home.

There was also an entry about her fears of living in London all the time, having never debuted and the prospect of being presented at court at the age of twenty-one—"practically overripe fruit" was how she phrased it—not to mention the formality of it all, and having to contend with Miss Glenville's kind on a daily basis. It was a conversation they had themselves had, that he had reassured her she would do excellently, that his mother would present her and she would be well-received, but since she had just written this entry days ago on her twenty-first birthday, a day he thought had brought her great joy, she evidently still had this worry.

The last section his eyes glanced upon referred to a project on which she had been working, one about which he had no awareness.

_It is tedious. It always is. The end result will be hardly larger the size of my hand, but may as well be the labours of Hercules to me. I think when it is done, though, it will have been well worth it._

"Mark!"

He slapped the book shut and realised he had been caught reading her daybook, for which he was instantly mortified. He turned quickly and saw her, eyes round, mouth open.

"I am sorry," he said instantly. "I meant only to close it for you and—"

He stopped in surprise when she began to cry; surprise because he expected (and felt he deserved) for her to pummel his chest in anger.

"Darling, what is the matter?"

"You must think me horrible!" she said, tears flooding her eyes.

"Why would I ever do that?"

"The things I said about you!"

"I did not read it cover to cover," he said gently, "but what I did see I well deserved at the time."

This had the opposite effect he had intended; instead of making her feel better, she burst out with renewed sobs. He had no idea to what this could be attributed, and he went to take her in his arms. She turned away, holding her own arms as if to comfort herself.

"I deserve your anger," he said. "I am sorrier than I can say."

"I am not angry," she said. "If anything you should be angry with me."

"And I said I am not."

"Not even about—" Her infamously free mouth had spoken before her mind had caught up with it.

"About what?" he asked, but even as he did he knew: she had written something in there she had intended to keep secret, and only now realised he had not in fact seen it. "Is this about your hand-sized project?"

She gasped. "Oh, the surprise is ruined!"

"If that was meant to be a secret you may still keep it as one."

"You did not see the details?"

He shook his head, which relieved her greatly, evident in the way her arms came down from her sides, especially evident in the way she reached up and embraced him.

"You should not leave your private writings where anyone might see them," he scolded gently, close to her ear. She playfully swatted at his arm, then reared back to give him a kiss. "You _are_ allowed your privacy, you know," he reminded, "and I ought not have invaded it, even inadvertently."

She lifted her chin. "You are right," she said. "You ought not to have. I shall have to think of some way for you to make it up to me." With a grin she pushed herself back then opened the drawer of the writing desk and slipped the daybook in. "I am too good a wife to make you sleep apart from me. Hm. Perhaps I shall ask Peter for advice." She furrowed a brow. "What brought you to my boudoir, anyway?"

He wondered what had caused her to quit the room to begin with, but did not ask. "I wanted to see if you wished to walk around the garden before dinner."

She smiled. "I think I would like that very much."

………

_Monday, 28 November_

"I do not think I can wait until it is finished to give it to you."

This curious statement came about two weeks after the equally curious encounter with her daybook. He looked up from his position on the sofa to where she stood, dressed in a pale yellow dress he found as delightful on her as always, ribbon around the collar and tied in a little bow at the front. "Of course you can," he said. "Unless it is you who cannot bear the anticipation any longer."

She pursed her lips, then cast an unexpected look towards his mother before returning her gaze to Darcy. "Mark, have you noticed anything different about me lately?"

He gave it due consideration. She had taken to bed earlier last week with a stomach ailment; between that and a more frequent use of a chamber pot during the night, he had assumed she was just suffering from an ill stomach. "Besides feeling a little unwell, I cannot say I have."

Lady Darcy smiled and hastened to cover it. He felt better to realise that his brother seemed as lost as he did; it was not something obvious that he alone was not understanding. It then occurred to him exactly how the room seemed divided: ladies were in the know, while the gentlemen were not. He drew his brows together; the fog of a faint idea was beginning to coalesce, though he could not quite make it out yet.

"Do I look different?" she asked. "Have our habits, in the short amount of time we have had them, changed in any way?"

He thought she looked rosier, happier than ever; thought her hair shone brighter; and that even she had seemed more voluptuous to him. "I cannot think of anything too significant to comment."

"Bridget, my dear, give it to him," said Lady Darcy.

She opened her reticule and drew out something that he did not understand at first. It was a small shape of cloth that had chain-stitch embroidery covering it partially, delicate florets made of thread.

"It is quite nice," he said, though did not understand the mystery. He ran his fingers over the florets. "Oh, did you do this? Quite lovely."

"Thank you, sir," she said, oddly formally. "And what do you think it is?"

As he turned it over in his hand, it struck him of what the cloth reminded him. "This looks like it shall be a small bonnet." Peter then made a sound of comprehension.

" _Mark_ ," she said, her eyes unblinking. "Can you really think of nothing that has been without significant interruption as of late?"

His brother laughed sharply. "Oh, Mark," said Peter, "indeed you _are_ as thick as a plank."

Darcy was thick, but not so thick that he did not catch her meaning, even if it took him a few moments of contemplation; there had not been a stretch of more than a day or two between their couplings for some weeks now, and he knew ladies of a certain age were confined at least once a month. He felt the blood race from his skin; if he had been standing he surely would have fallen to the floor in an unmanly faint. 

"This is a baby bonnet?" he asked at last.

She finally allowed first a smile, then for the tears to form in her eyes. "I did not want to say until I was more certain," she said with great emotion, "but if I waited to give it to you until I finished I would have borne the child already."

He found himself on his feet and taking her in his arms. "And you are now more certain?" he asked, searching her eyes.

She nodded. "I have consulted with your mother, hence our apparent conspiracy in this matter."

It was atypical for such a subject to be discussed so publicly in the drawing room, but Darcy had come to realise his wife was not a typical woman. "Oh, my love," he said, allowing his own tears of happiness to come. "You never cease to remind me I am the happiest of men." He drew back and kissed her. "This was your surprise?"

She nodded. "I miscalculated. Slightly larger than my hand in total."

"I care not," he said. "It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made."

She laughed. "I think there are quite a few artisans who would take issue with that statement."

He laughed too, then were besieged by Peter then his mother for warm embraces. The latter insisted that they call upon her parents as soon as possible to give them the news.

"We can take the carriage," Bridget said.

"Is that wise?" he asked. "All the shaking and rattling about could be detrimental. We should go and bring back them here."

"Mark, I am not a china doll that will break for a carriage ride."

"But the baby—"

"Mark," said Lady Darcy, "I rode regularly with both of my children before I knew I was pregnant. Bridget will be fine."

"Rode?" asked Darcy. "As in a horse?"

"For whom do you think that tatty old side saddle was?"

Bridget, who had looked smug at Lady Darcy's siding with her on the issue of travel, suddenly looked surprised. "Tatty old saddle?" she asked. "But the side saddle I used was…" She drifted off. "It was new, was it not?"

Peter started to chuckle. "I was with him when he made the purchase," he said. "He particularly thought you would like the roses."

She smiled, then tears overflowed from her eyes. "Another effect of this condition," she said. "Everything even remotely sweet makes me cry like a, well, baby." He took her in his arms again and held her to him, filled with a sense of wonder that he should so soon be blessed with a child with her, that she carried this new life within.

"I shall go fetch the Joneses, shall I?" asked Peter.

"Why should we panic them," said Darcy, drawing away, "for the duration of the ride back from The Gables?" He took her hands in his. "Come, darling. Let us go to see your family." She smiled, then nodded.

Darcy admitted a bit of nervousness in the carriage ride to her family home, but she did emerge unscathed on the other side. Her parents and brother were most surprised by the impromptu visit, even a little alarmed that they both should have come, at least until they saw the happy expressions on Darcy's and Bridget's faces.

"Mr Jones, Mrs Jones, Jamie," said Darcy with a smile, "we wished to let you know directly that we shall be welcoming a child."

Mrs Jones shrieked her joy and leapt forward to embrace her daughter, then her son; Jamie was all grins and hugged his sister and brother alike; Mr Jones, as always, was quieter in his reaction to the good news, and merely gave his daughter a long, tight embrace, and shook Darcy's hand.

"I really could not be happier for you both," Mr Jones said.

"And here I feared you wished to return her to us for being too rambunctious!" said Jamie with a laugh and a wink.

"Oh, but you shall be away to town!" cried Mrs Jones. "How shall I fawn over my dearest girl during her confinement?"

Darcy had been so taken aback and so thrilled at the news that he had not thought about logistics. Judging from his wife's own expression, she had not either. How could she travel back from town when it was very likely to be close to the date of the child's birth when the season ended?

There was only one thing to be done about it.

"We shall not go to town," he said. Turning to Bridget, he added, "It would appear that you are spared the likes of Miss Glenville for another year, at least."

Her parents did not understand what he meant, but Jamie smirked, and Bridget laughed lightly in response and gave him a hug.


	15. Epilogue: In which the last difficulty is overcome.

_Wednesday, 21 June, 1815_

Lady Darcy assured her son that all was going quite normally, at least as normally as things got for Bridget. She had been defiant in her supposed confinement, getting up and taking walks around the house and, when it was pleasant enough, the park. This raised the ire of the maids charged with caring for her, Mrs Bosworth, her mother and, of course, Darcy.

"I will go mad with such lack of activity—I am not an invalid and I grow bored with this latest novel you have for me," she said from her position on the bed, pointing to her copy of _Mansfield Park_ on the bureau beside her. "Aside from the pressure prompting more frequent calls to the chamber pot and a bit of back pain, I am fine. At least may I try the harp? I would just be sitting there, plucking."

Darcy pointedly lowered his eyes toward the very rounded stomach of his wife, then raised them again. "Do you really think you could?"

She looked down, too, then sighed. "I suppose you are right," she said resignedly. "Terribly inconvenient, this bump."

He smiled, reaching for her hand and squeezing gently; they had taken to referring to the little one as 'the bump'. "There is always your baby bonnet embroidery."

She sighed again. "Perhaps I can get Becca to finish. She has a nice chain stitch. My fingers are so swollen and tender…"

"And you wanted to play the harp," he began, but stopped when the pressure increased significantly on his hand and her face went white. "What is it?" he asked.

She did not say anything, only furrowed her brow. 

"Are you in pain?" he asked. "Do I need to have the doctor fetched?"

She looked to him, blinking twice more. "Yes," she said calmly. "I think so. I appear to have sprung a leak."

Instantly he became alarmed and ran to the door, calling for his mother, who came into the room in a flash. When he explained the situation, she did not seem afraid at all.

"Oh, Mark, this means it is time for the midwife," she said with a gentle smile. "I will have Peter get her right away, and have Molly bring some things for the birth."

When she departed, Darcy went back to her side and clasped her hand. "It appears you shall not be bored for much longer," he said. "This is—"

As he spoke she bore down on his hand with a crushing clasp as she cried out, this time in obvious pain. "I take your meaning," she said through gritted teeth, gasping for breath as the pain passed. "The bump shall be a bump no more, and with a bare head at that."

He chuckled, though was feeling distraught that there was little he could do for her. "If I could take the pain for myself…"

"I shall consider it part of the experience," she said. "Part of the miracle of life."

A short time later Lady Darcy and Molly arrived, the latter with a stack of towels upon her forearms. "Peter has gone," she said, "and when the midwife arrives you will need to leave."

He knew he would, though he did not like the idea. "Is there anything I may do?"

"Hand me one of those towels," said Bridget, "then stay here with me until she arrives."

The midwife came in due time and as expected ushered Darcy from the room. It did not please him to sit outside the door and listen to her howls of pain when there was nothing he could do to help. The Joneses also arrived—Peter must have gone for them, as well—and in silence the gentlemen sat waiting for the baby to come while Mrs Jones went in to be with her daughter.

Darcy did not bother to look at the time; five minutes felt like hours and would continue to do so until he had word from inside the room. He strained to listen for something, anything, to indicate her labour was over, but there was nothing but cries for what seemed like far too long. He sat back against the chair's wings and closed his eyes, praying that the birth would be a quick and easy one for her.

"Mark."

He looked up to see his mother. He did not remember her coming out of the bedroom at all, but he realised now that the sun had dropped below the horizon, that it was now evening. He did not think it possible that he could have fallen to sleep, but he seemed obvious he must have. Without hesitation he was on his feet. "What news is there?"

He could see tears in her eyes, and for a horrible moment he thought something had gone wrong; until, that is, he saw the smile on her face. "You have a son."

Relief and joy washed over him, but only for a second—

"And Bridget?" he asked, suddenly fearful again.

"She is resting," she said, coming forward to take his hand. "She did very well. You would be proud."

"May I go to her?"

"She wants very much to see you," said Mrs Jones, who came from the bedroom next. "I would keep it brief, sir. She needs to rest."

"I defer to your expertise in this matter," he said, taking her hands next and bending to kiss her cheek, which visibly surprised her; in fact, he may never have done such a thing before, so the surprise was warranted.

Slowly he pulled the door open then went into the room. It was dim save for reflected moonlight but the air was thick with the smell of recently extinguished lamps; the ambiance of the remaining candlelight reminded him oddly of their wedding night. He stood at the side of the bed and gazed down where she lay. Her eyes were closed, hear breath was slow and steady; her hair was damp and sticking to her face, and her skin had the sheen and pallor telling the tale of the exertion she had just endured. To his left, the midwife sat rocking in a chair with a little bundle in her arms, and before waking his wife he went over to this pair. The woman—whose name he realised to his chagrin he did not even know (or at least remember)—looked up to him with a beatific expression.

"He is a beautiful child," she said very quietly. "Very healthy."

"May I see him?"

She drew back the blanket from the baby's head to reveal a surprisingly hearty tuft of dark hair, a round little face and rose petal lips. It was as much as he could see given the child's closely wrapped swaddling. Darcy brought his hand to his mouth without thinking, feeling very emotional. "He is beautiful," he agreed softly, tears filling his own eyes.

"Mark, is that you?"

He turned to see her eyes were open, and as he looked upon her he saw a smile spread over her lips. Instantly he went to her, sitting upon the bed, taking her hand.

"I recall our sitting like this just before everything really began today," she said, her voice a testament to her exhaustion, but her jesting tone a testament to her spirit.

"Yes," he agreed. "It is all over now. Our son is well and sleeping."

"Oh, yes, a son," she said. "I meant to say. I insisted upon holding him and he fed a little but…" She yawned, then winced a little. "I recall you saying if you could only take the pain—"

"I would without hesitation," he said. He squeezed her hand then leaned to kiss her briefly on the mouth. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Mm, yes," she said sleepily. "I want to see my father, and Jamie and Peter too." He heard the midwife make a clucking sound of disapproval. "Then I would like for you to read to me."

"Read to you?" he asked. "Read what?"

She lifted her heavy lids and smiled. "Lord Byron."

He smiled, then nodded.

As she visited briefly with her male kin (both by blood and through marriage), he went in her boudoir to find the volume she liked best. It sat by her daybook, which she had carelessly left open again. The light of a very full moon flooded her desk and set the sepia ink starkly against the white of the page, and betraying him his eyes skimmed over the page. 

What he read there, written only the day before, made him smile.

_Have just gotten word that Napoleon has again been defeated and will trouble us no more. I shall still rely on Mark, however, to defend me from any remaining spies. Well, us. What we shall call the little bump… if a girl, truth be told I have not given it much thought, because secretly I believe the bump is a boy—_

_It shall be nice for there to be a Malcolm Darcy in the world again._

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the [links](http://stillwatersdeep.altervista.org/InWantOfAWife/notes.php) for this story here. Note that I have not vetted the links in some time. Hope they are still valid.


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